


Falling

by medvetis



Series: Abomination [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angels and Demons, Angst, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 08:36:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 39,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13655376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medvetis/pseuds/medvetis
Summary: Fletcher is a young demon on his first assignment, and it should have been easy enough: Take care of an unarmed guardian angel. But the world is new and wide, and Merrick won't fight back. Instead, he offers Fletcher an escape, and maybe even entrance into Heaven at last. But with every angel and demon around them working their own agenda, it's hard to tell if Fletcher is falling in love, Merrick is falling from grace, or if they're both simply falling for someone else's master plan.





	1. Fledgling Assignments

“Fletcher! Assignment from the boss.”

Razi wandered in with a toothpick balanced between his teeth, his hands tucked into the pockets of his red and black sport coat, forever looking the world like a used car salesman, slicked-back hair and perpetual grin only accenting the idea. “Ready to get your ass back on the good earth?”

“What’s the assignment?” Fletcher asked with a frown.

“What do you think? You ain’t got the charm for sales yet.” He tugged at the collar of his shirt, smoothing down the edges and using his tongue to roll the toothpick to the other corner of his mouth. “Adem’s giving you an opportunity to prove yourself. Bring him back some feathers, at least. You come back bearing full wings, and you know you’ll have the boss purring like a kitten. He could always use more for his collection.”

“I’m going after an angel?”

“Jesus H., you been down here so long you got brimstone in your ears or what?” He held out his hand. “Come on, fledgling. Let me take you upstairs, give you the two dollar tour.”

Fletcher took his hand, standing at last. He flexed his wings, then folded them, still getting used to the new balance. “Last time I was on earth, it was surrounded by police and bullets.”

“Fledgling, last time you were on earth, alcohol was illegal and you couldn’t run your car at more than 60 miles per hour without the tires crapping out. You should see Chicago now.” He grinned, and the pair of them were clouded in black smoke. “Unfortunately for you, your target’s in Virginia.”

Fletcher took in a deep breath, and when he opened his eyes, he and Razi stood in the center of Times’ Square. His breath caught in his throat.

Razi laughed, fitting on a pair of dark sunglasses. “Couldn’t resist. Close your mouth before you start catchin’ flies. You’re not staying around here, but I thought I’d show you the wonders of the modern world before I drop you in Alexandria. Your target’s a guardian angel, and he’s been hanging around a ripe soul that Adem doesn’t want the angels getting a hold of. We don’t need another useful sword in the Garrison, huh?”

Fletcher was only half-listening, looking from billboard to billboard, to the arching structures full of glass and lights, to the cars sleek and stuck in traffic, to the people crowding the sidewalks. He nodded numbly.

“Oh, and before you start showing yourself to any mortals, we’re gonna have to update your wardrobe,” Razi added. “You gotta drop that Capone look. You look like you belong in black and white. Fact of the matter is, you may wanna change your look before you go after that angel, or he’ll laugh himself to death first.”

Another burst of smoke had them on the front lawn of a wealthy suburb, and Fletcher rubbed at his eyes. Razi tucked a piece of paper into his hand. “The angel’s name is Merrick. This is the house of his charge. Don’t come back home without at least a fistful of feathers and a good story, huh?” And with no more advice, the demon disappeared.

Fletcher sat down on the manicured grass, and for a long moment just closed his eyes and soaked in the feeling of sunlight. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, a lightness in his chest that hadn’t been there since—well, not since he was alive, and not even often then. He leaned back on his hands, the paper crumpled between his palm and the grass. Cars passed on the nearby road, the hum of their engines and the grumble of tires on pavement soothingly familiar. It was like being home again, riding in the back of a truck amongst crates of bootlegged alcohol, a shotgun cradled in his arms and a cigarette between his teeth, trading stories with the driver about drinking with the boss, the man who seemed larger than life.

A car rolled into the driveway beside him, and Fletcher felt a jolt of electricity run up his spine, sending a tingle all through his wings. He scrambled to his feet, stuffed the paper into his pocket, and immediately concealed himself in the shadows of a massive spreading oak. The car parked, and a young woman slid out, swearing under her breath and slinging her purse over her shoulder with more force than necessary. But the source of his awakening came not from her, but from the angel that followed in her step.

That had to be him.

Merrick was the first angel Fletcher had ever seen, but at first glimpse he wasn’t so sure he was sent after the right being. He had seen Adem’s collection of bloody wings plenty of times, but he always pictured them attached to the same sort of ethereal beings he had always seen on the stained glass windows of the old cathedrals, or etched into the Bibles they had hollowed out to hide contraband in, before loading into open boxes and walking them brazenly past police officers on their smoke breaks. Merrick…didn’t look much like any of those. His dark hair had the tousled look of a sailor fresh off the sea wind, and his long limbs and narrow waist only accented the idea. He walked with a long stride, his speckled wings half-open behind him for balance.

“I told you that you should have left that fucker last week,” Merrick said to the woman, despite the fact that she couldn’t hear him.

Fletcher definitely didn’t think that angels were supposed to curse.

“One of these days you’re going to actually hear me, and maybe even listen,” the angel went on, following her inside the house. “And—no, you cannot go back there and poison his whiskey! Goddamn it, Abby, no wonder Chael is worried that you’re not going to make it to heaven if you’re seriously considering that. I know he was an ass, but—” His voice faded behind the closed door. Fletcher released a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding.

He wasn’t so sure he could do this.

Only when the door locked did he pull the slip of paper from his pocket and open it. He recognized Razi’s slanted writing, but he would have guessed the demon wrote it anyway, based on the tone.

_Fledgling, a few things to remember. You control who can see you if they’re mortal, but other demons and angels can see you just fine up here. And some magical assholes too. So don’t stand in the open like a dumbass unless you want to get sliced and diced by some overeager angel from the Garrison. I think Eztli especially would gleefully carve a bit off your flank. This little bird should be an easy catch. He’s very distracted by his job. Just wait for him to be paying attention to her, and get your claws into him._

_Bonus points if you drag him downstairs and let the boss get a bite or two in._

Easy catch. Fletcher read the note again dubiously, then looked back to the house. If he looked hard enough, he could see shadows of his target. Merrick followed Abby upstairs to her bedroom, a pulsing white light near the core of his body, the beckoning curve of his wings bobbing with each step. Fletcher walked to the front door, then paused at the handle when he found it locked. He could practically hear Razi’s voice in his head. _You’re a demon now, dumbass_. In a puff of black smoke, he was on the other side of the door. He could hear the footsteps of the woman upstairs, the creak of the floorboards, and then a thump as she collapsed into bed. Music turned up, so loud it made the walls tremble and his head pulse. He craned his neck to look at the ceiling, the halo of angelic light just visible though it. Merrick sat at the foot of her bed.

Though the pulsing music, Fletcher crept up the stairs. He could see wings through the open door at the end of the hall. Just, what? Grab them and wrestle the bird to the ground? Fletcher looked down at his hands, curling his fingers some until dark claws appeared at their tips. He touched his tongue to his teeth, feeling the sharp edges answer his mute question.

He felt like such an animal.

His feet moved forward even as his tongue tapped doubtfully against his teeth. He crouched in the doorway, peering around the frame. Merrick sat cross-legged on the bed, talking to his charge in soothing tones as she buried her face against her pillow.

“Honey, you can get through this. You know you’re strong enough, don’t you?” Merrick leaned forward, putting a hand on her back, even if she couldn’t feel it. “You’re not alone. I won’t leave you, no matter what happens. I promise.”

Fletcher took in a deep breath, and stepped into the room at last, a swirl of black smoke at his heels. The angel jerked, twisting to face him. His feathers puffed out like a startled bird, and Fletcher got caught in the deep blue of his eyes. Surprised, even a touch frightened, but Merrick turned to place himself squarely between Abby and the demon. His wings trembled.

“You can’t have her.”

“I’m not here for her.” Fletcher wished his voice sounded more intimidating. Even Razi, with all of his slinking, could still make the hellhounds crouch.

Merrick tilted up his chin, and balled his hands into fists at his side. “Go on, then.”

For so long, he had heard stories of glorious fights against the angels. The Garrison with their shining weapons and inflated egos, thinking themselves invincible reapers. Adem holding up bloody wings as he told of their triumph, pinning the holy beings to the ground and ripping, tearing, reveling in their screams. He would appear covered in blood and feathers, bleeding from wounds so deep they exposed bone, but manic enough not to feel the pain. He reminded Fletcher of tilted hats and aromatic cigars, stories traded in speakeasies that made them all feel as if they could never die. Fletcher’s hands shook. This angel had no shining sword or axe, and just stood defiant and afraid. It should be easy to take him. Razi and Adem had given him a task he could not fail, all in the deep blue of Merrick’s eyes.

Fletcher disappeared in a curl of pungent smoke. The demon hid himself under the shadows of the spreading oak outside, and swore. Razi never said he had to do it in one day, right? He had time. He could bide his time. He could do this.

He had time.


	2. The Perks of Being Dead

Fletcher watched the angel for seven more days before he made another move.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He watched Merrick for one full day as he followed Abby through her routine. She went to her graduate classes, went to her part-time job at a shipping company, made dinner, called her friends and begged for advice. Should she should move on, or try to get back together with her boyfriend? (“Honey, move on. He was a nasty fuck and he put his hands on you,” Merrick said next to her ear, as if she could hear him.) One day was enough to know what kind of target this angel was. Foul-mouthed and concerned, shadowing her with a commentary for just about everything, moving with the ease of one used to multi-tasking. He would extend a wing to catch an item wobbling on a high shelf, all while leaning over to whisper into her ear, telling jokes to make her smile, even if she didn’t know the reason why.

Fletcher procrastinated making his move.

Day two was spent knocking around Alexandria and getting used to moving through the earth as something not quite of it. It was amazing to be able to stand in the middle of the sidewalk and watch the humans move around him. They had no idea he was there, but they automatically avoided anything more than a brush by. Even those texting, eyes firmly fixed on their screens, would abruptly swerve without thought. If he extended his leathery wings, people would trip over the edge of the sidewalk, stepping into the gutter to pass by. Locked doors and windows were bypassed with a puff of smoke and a thought, and soon he didn’t even need to think about it. He explored people’s houses, listened to conversations, and stole food just to get the taste of it again. He never remembered seeing such a variety of fruit available. He spent six hours in a grocery store.

Day three, four, five, and six, he went everywhere he could think he had wanted to see as a child. New York City, the statue of liberty. He could remember his grandfather talking about Ellis Island. Their last name had gotten misspelled. His grandfather never forgave the clerks. San Francisco, and the Golden Gate Bridge. He sat on one of the rails and watched an angel pull a man back from the edge, whispering, begging in his ear to wait another day. The angel looked much more like what Fletcher expected—golden hair and baby-faced, fluffy white wings aching for a set of claws to bloody them. A target. Fletcher left him alone. Instead, he went to Paris. The Eiffel Tower was much less impressive than it had been in photographs. He ate in a Parisian cafe, practicing making himself appear both visible and human. The waiter asked if he was an actor. Fletcher finally changed his clothes after that.

On day seven, he went home. Not back to hell, of course, but to Chicago.

The streets still felt like home, even with the changes nearly one hundred years brought about. Storefronts that had been their speakeasies were now towering hotels and advertisement-covered liquor stores. He couldn’t believe the variety of liquors on display, bold as a new day. On the street where he had watched the taxi riots, cars hummed back and forth freely. A group of men marched with signs, protesting the taxi unions not allowing Uber into the area.

Some things never changed.

He walked through the zoo, then along the lake. His feet took him into a neighborhood of old brownstones, and he breathed in the scent of the city. He was twenty years old again, following after a cop who, despite being on their payroll, was threatening to expose where their latest shipment of moonshine was entering the city. Fletcher cornered him in an alley, shoving him against the wall and breathing threats into his ear. His memory was fuzzy as to how everything happened, but within half an hour he had his hands under the cop’s shirt, and the man’s lips were around his ear. He could remember feeling the pressure of the wrap around his chest, the fear and the exhilaration. He couldn’t remember the cop’s name, but he remembered the taste of his mouth, the warmth of his hands, the promise that the moonshine would make it freely into the city, if Fletcher would go home with him.

He remembered when that man broke his promise. He couldn’t remember the cop’s name, but he remembered the smell of gunpowder and fear, the cool of the pistol’s grip against his palm, and the splatter of blood as he fulfilled his duty to his crew. He remembered shaking his boss’s hand afterwards.

Fletcher walked the city even as the sun sank low against the concrete and glass. The city had changed, but he found home there when the moon rose and litter scattered the alleyways. Footsteps slapped the concrete, panting breaths loud enough to make him turn. A kid no older than eighteen ran towards him, holding a bag and a handgun against his chest, panic obvious in the whites of his eyes. He was followed closely by two men not many years his elders, swearing and panting, one of them sporting a bleeding lip. The kid made a sharp turn into an alley, caught his foot on the edge of a broken dumpster, and went sprawling onto the ground, the bag tumbling alongside of him, though the gun was still held firmly in his hand.

“Where do you think you’re going, you little shit?” one of the older men challenged, stopping at the mouth of the alley. “You think you can steal from us and get away with it?”

The kid rolled onto his back, scrambling backwards. He said nothing, but raised the gun in two shaking hands.

“You think you’ve got the balls to pull that trigger? Go ahead.” The thug leaned down, picking up rusted pipe near the edge of the dumpster and swinging it one-handed. “We’ll see how many pieces of you we leave to crawl home.”

Fletcher crouched beside the kid, and closed his hands around the gun. “Hold the grip like this,” he whispered, his eyes on the larger boys. “And keep both of your eyes open. Sight along the barrel, squeeze the trigger, and by the time you feel the kick, you should hear them fall.”

The sound of two gunshots echoed between the glass and concrete. Fletcher stood, leaving the kid to grab his bag once more, stumble to his feet, and run out of the alley before anyone came to investigate the noise. The demon took a pack of cigarettes from one of the downed boys before blood began to soak into it, and felt a familiar warmth in his chest. His wings twitched, and he took a long drag on the cigarette after lighting it with a flicker of flame from his palm.

“Well shit, fledgling. I was starting to wonder if you’d earned your wings for nothing,” Razi greeted, appearing next to him to steal his cigarette. “You like being the little demon on the shoulder?”

Fletcher startled, but did his best to hide it, pulling out another cigarette instead. “I was just going for a walk.”

“Uh huh. You’ve been walking for a week now, kiddo. Find your footing yet? The boss is looking for an update on you. Should I tell him we let you out too soon?”

“No,” he insisted, blowing out smoke through his nose. “But I’m not one of the hellhounds. I’m not going to rip into this angel all teeth and claws. I need a weapon. I need a gun.”

Razi laughed so hard he choked. “You’ll be a hellhound if Adem tells you to be one,” he warned, but he was grinning. “But fair enough. Fledgling wants a gun to take down his angel? Make sure you don’t get any bloodstains on the new coat.” He tugged at Fletcher’s jacket. “I dig the new look. Much less Al Capone, much more Wall Street wolverine. You might get there yet.” He looked him up and down again. “I’ll meet you back at the guardian’s hovel tomorrow morning, with your gun. But you’d better come back with feathers after that. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it.” Red and blue lights reflected on the glass store fronts. Razi disappeared, leaving Fletcher standing alone beside the two bodies. His ears still rang from the sound of gunfire, and he leaned against the alley’s brick wall, watching the uniformed officers come running over with guns drawn, speaking into radios and quick to rope off the area. Only when the starlight began to fade, and the first gray wisps of dawn threaded the horizon did Fletcher move. He left behind Chicago to the chilly morning, returning at last to the shadow of the oak in Abby’s front yard.

“I have to ask,” Fletcher greeted when he heard Razi’s step, “do demons sleep? I’ve been going non-stop for a week now, and I’m not tired.”

“One of the perks of being dead,” he laughed. “You don’t need sleep, don’t need food or drink, but if you want them, you can have them. Makes filling your diary a bit easier, huh? Makes you wonder why people are so resistant to death. If only they knew what was waiting afterwards, maybe they’d be jumping in front of a lot more buses. Though, I’m sure not every soul in hell would agree.”

“I’m not sure I would have agreed a week ago,” Fletcher countered. “I met plenty of souls that had been down there a lot longer than me waiting to get their wings.”

“Well, some nuts are harder to crack. It’s not like we can give every village idiot free reign to run the earth. Too many rules to follow.”

“You haven’t exactly told me any rules I need to follow.”

“Cosmic rules,” Razi corrected. “Only thing you need to follow are orders.” He pulled a revolver from an inner coat pocket, and offered it Fletcher. “You know, one day you’re gonna have to learn to use your hands to get bloody. This might not take an angel down all the way, but it should slow him enough to get your claws in.”

Fletcher took the gun with a smile, running his fingers over the grip as if caressing an old lover. It was a beautiful little piece, clean and cool, the grip decorated with marks that looked like the slashes of claws. “Do any other demons use things like this?” he asked, but Razi had already left, leaving him to the oak tree and his new lover.

The front door to the house opened, and Abby came bustling out like a whirlwind, coat half-on and keys held in her teeth. She juggled her phone and her purse, cursing around her keys and trying to get her left shoe over her heel as she walked. Merrick shadowed her, holding out his hands as if offering to carry something.

“You know, if you got up when I told you, at your first alarm, you wouldn’t have this problem. Can’t you stop for a moment and—”

The sharp report of the revolver broke the morning air. Merrick felt the bullet whiz past his feathers, and he stopped in his tracks. Abby climbed into her car with her arms still full of her belongings, oblivious to the fight happening just beyond her senses.

The angel turned to face Fletcher. “I didn’t think you’d be back.”

Fletcher led with the revolver as he stepped forward. “I wasn’t very sporting last time, now was I? My boss wants to meet you. I thought you should get a proper introduction.”

Merrick looked to the car that was starting to back down the driveway, then back to Fletcher. “What kind of a demon carries a gun?”

“The kind that didn’t have to miss when he shot the first time,” he snapped, stopping just out of Merrick’s reach, gun still pointed at the angel’s chest. “We’re taking a little trip together.”

“Shoot me, then. I’m not going anywhere with you, much less to your boss. You’re one of Adem’s crew, aren’t you? I’m not about to have my wings above his mantle.”

Fletcher’s arm remained steady, but his finger feathered the trigger. How dare the angel just stand there, refusing to run, refusing to fight, refusing to cooperate? How dare he just stand there, just…daring him to shoot. The nose of the revolver wobbled, then dipped down towards the grass at last. “If I kill you, your wings end up in the same place, angel.”

“If you kill me,” Merrick agreed, focusing his eyes over Fletcher’s left shoulder.

The shift was enough to get the demon’s attention, and it was nothing other than reflex that saved his life. He threw himself to the side as a curved blade whistled the air, digging into the dirt where he had been standing a moment prior. A female angel yanked the blade free, her white wings covered in small black dots arranged in neat rows. She came after Fletcher again as the demon scrambled backwards. He fired, the bullet ripping through one of her spotted wings, sending a few bloody feathers flying. He snatched the feathers from the ground, then disappeared in a cloud of black smoke as the blade whistled for his head once more.

“Thank you, Eztli,” Merrick breathed, putting a hand to his chest to make sure his heart was still beating. “Are you okay?”

She extended her bleeding wing curiously, poking her fingers through the singed hole. “What kind of a cowardly demon carries a gun?” she laughed. “Adem must be getting pretty desperate.”

“I don’t know about that,” Merrick said, looking to the pale threads of smoke left behind. “I have a feeling I haven’t seen the last of him.”

“Well, you see him again, and you call me. I won’t miss next time,” she promised, wiping the blood from her fingers. “You know I’m always looking to add another spot to the record.” With one last smile and the flutter of feathers, she disappeared.

Across the street, Razi lit a cigarette from behind the hood of a towering black SUV. Adem had ordered the kid to get a handful of feathers, and lo and behold the demon delivered. But Razi saw a much more ambitious opportunity as he watched Merrick look up and down the street, then take wing to chase after his charge on her way to work. A rare, profitable opportunity. Wait until Adem heard this one.


	3. Parisian Drinks

Adem twirled two of the singed, bloody feathers between his fingers, watching the light play off the spots. “So, you got a shot off at the reaper, huh?”

“The reaper?” Fletcher repeated, wishing his voice didn’t sound so small. He wasn’t sure which frightened him more—Eztli’s surprise attack, or the fact that Adem seemed pleased. The demon never failed to give him a crawling sensation under his skin.

“That’s what a lot of the boys call that angel that attacked you,” Razi put in, leaning against a nearby wall. “Because of that curved blade of hers. Or because she kills so many fucking demons.”

“A shame you only got a few feathers,” Adem sighed. “Though, I am surprised that you survived. She’s taken down much older and more powerful demons than you.” At last, he looked away from the prize between his fingers, and gave Fletcher a smile that chilled his blood, before he turned in his chair to put his back to the demon and stand. “She’s on my list, anyway.”

Fletcher swallowed thickly. He folded his hands so he could nervously tug at his fingers without his superior noticing. He wasn’t sure where to look—at the bloody feathers, at the twitch of the muscles in Adem’s arms when he twirled them, at the black tattoos that marked down his back, or the two terrible scars where his wings had been. The demon rarely wore a shirt, as if reminding not only himself, but everyone else the source of his rage. Razi said he didn’t wear clothing because even after a few centuries of healing, even the slightest pressure over the wounds hurt.

“So, your target got away?” Adem asked at last, tucking the feathers behind his ear and turning to face Fletcher again.

“No, sir. I know where he is still. I just wanted to report in. Razi said not to come back without at least a fistful of feathers and, well—”

Adem laughed. “And you did deliver on that, didn’t you? There is a slight change to your assignment. Razi will tell you all about it.” He tilted up Fletcher’s chin with two fingers. “Don’t disappoint me. I gave you your wings for a reason. Don’t give me an excuse to rip them from you.”

Fletcher folded his wings tightly against his back. “Yes, sir.”

Razi leaned his arm on Fletcher’s shoulder, watching Adem walk out with a toothy grin. “I think the boss likes you, sport. Come on, let’s go topside and get a drink.”

“What did he mean about my assignment changing?”

“Drink first!” Razi took them both to the end of a long bar with a quick plume of smoke, and when he raised his hand the bartender came over with an easy smile.

“Back again?” the bartender greeted. “The usual?”

“Two of them,” the demon returned chipperly, pulling a fifty dollar bill from his pocket and laying it on the bar.

“I didn’t think drinks were that expensive now,” Fletcher noted with a frown.

“They’re not. But I’ve got to encourage his gambling habit somehow,” Razi laughed. “He’s one of my pet projects. Besides, I’ve got to keep him happy. He makes the best sidecars I’ve found yet.”

“A sidecar?” he repeated. “I thought that was a Parisian drink.”

“Maybe in 1922, kid, but welcome to 2017. Trust me, this joint is not the Ritz Hotel.” He lifted his glass as the bartender traded their drinks for pocketing the bill. “Cheers. You’ve earned it.”

Fletcher couldn’t remember the last time he tasted liquor so good, and he closed his eyes when he took a drink. Maybe it was the fact that it wasn’t made in a bathtub, wasn’t watered down with whatever they could find to mask the taste, or maybe it was because he wasn’t skewered on the end of Eztli’s blade. Maybe it was just because he could feel the weight of his revolver against the inside of his jacket, and that felt like home.

“So, you were having some trouble going after that guardian, weren’t you?”

Fletcher choked on an ice cube. Clearing his throat quickly, he shook his head. “No. I mean, not aside from getting interrupted.”

Razi’s grin assured him he was fooling no one. “Well, you’re a lucky son of a bitch. Both because you’re not dead by the reaper, and because you have a brilliant Captain who spun the story of what happened in your direction.”

“What do you mean?”

Razi leaned forward, straightening Fletcher’s collar and pulling him closer by it. “I was watching you, fledgling. Your hesitation had nothing to do with Eztli swooping in to save the day. Why didn’t you take that guardian when you had the chance?”

He opened his mouth, only to realize he had no idea what the answer would be. Why did he hesitate? Why didn’t he just shoot the stubborn angel?

“Doesn’t matter,” Razi assured with a smile like poisoned honey. “Boss doesn’t want you to kill him any longer.”

“Why?”

“The woman he’s watching over is important in this whole cosmic balance thing. We don’t want the angels getting a hold of her, and we’ve got one of our boys trying to sit in her ear, you understand? We need you to distract the bird.”

“Distract him?” he repeated, finally reaching down to unhook Razi’s fingers from his coat and smooth down the wrinkles. He took another drink. “Distract him how?”

Razi dropped his hand to Fletcher’s thigh with a suggestive squeeze. “I’m sure you’ll think of something,” he whispered in his ear. He stepped back, quaffed his drink, and disappeared. The bartender brought Fletcher a refill without him asking.

“Can I get you anything else?”

“No, thanks.” Fletcher stared down at his glass, for a moment wondering if, with all the corners of Earth at his disposal, if there was anywhere he could hide that the demons would not find him. He doubted it. He knocked back his drink, thought about kissing cops in alleyways, thought about shooting them in shadows, and walked out.


	4. Cold Bunkers and Velvet Blankets

“So, I heard you ran into a bit of trouble.”

Merrick felt a smile tug at his lips when he heard Chael’s voice. He looked up from his book, curled up in a chair downstairs while Abby slept. “I guess Eztli told you?” he greeted. There was something about Chael’s presence that always gave him a sense of comfort and warmth. Chael was not a small man by any means, and his white wings only amplified the effect, but his eyes were always calm, like the wind before a storm, and his smile radiated a sense of kingly control.

“Yes, in vivid detail,” Chael agreed, leaning on the back of the couch. “Are you alright?”

“Not even a scratch.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Merrick waited, sure that the Garrison leader hadn’t come down from heaven just for small talk. Surely he had more important things to worry about than a young demon trying to prove himself by taking down an unarmed guardian. “Did Teremun send you to check up on me?”

Chael shook his head. “Teremun is both waiting for you to fail, and counting on the fact that you will succeed. This woman is important—we need her to get to heaven.”

“He’s told me that. And he told me this was my last chance to keep my wings,” Merrick added quietly, running his fingers along the edges of the book. “He didn’t say why she was important, though.”

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me. I doubt that he will.” Chael evaded the question that never came. Merrick was too polite to ask it outright. “You know how he is, though.”

“He’s an ass.”

Chael smiled. “It would be impolite for me to say that. We’re of the same rank.”

“It’s disrespectful of me to say that,” Merrick pointed out. “Insubordination, even.”

“What Teremun doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” The angel folded his arms over his chest, and his wings fluttered thoughtfully. “I just wanted to let you know that what you’re doing here is important. And don’t hesitate to call if you need protection.”

“Is Eztli that eager for more spots on her wings?”

Though Chael smiled, his eyes were serious. “If you need us, you know we’re only a thought away. Take care of yourself, Merrick. And even if you only need to talk—call me.”

And with that, he disappeared, leaving a white feather behind on the couch. Merrick picked it up, twirling it between his fingers thoughtfully. If Chael was the sky before the storm, then Teremun was the raven warning imminent doom from it. He knew half of the Garrison called Chael crow, or white crow, but it had something to do with Viking lore and Merrick had never looked into it. But he always saw him much more as a pillar of light or a place to weather the storm, rather than the one to herald doom.

Teremun seemed like a preacher of brimstone and fire.

Merrick opened his book again, but his eyes couldn’t focus on the pages any longer. Teremun had told him almost nothing about this assignment, other than to keep her on the right track, and keep her focused on her degree. It didn’t make a lot of sense—he had one assignment before this, a kid with depression he was supposed to keep alive. It went well, and he was proud of what he had done, but he wasn’t sure how normal it was to have the job of ‘make sure they keep researching.’ Why should heaven care about mortal’s research? Wasn’t it more important to have a healthy mental state, a good moral standing, charity and kindness to get into heaven? Wasn’t that what all the books said?

He gave up on reading at last, and after a quick check to make sure that Abby was still soundly asleep, he left the quiet of her house in favor of a clear night sky and a half moon. He found an open field far from the lights of the suburbs and the hum of the city, laying on his back and mapping the stars with his fingertips. He could remember nights as quiet as this, out on the ocean beneath the stars, waiting for the whistle of mortars and the shine of other ships. The nights they never came, though, and there was nothing to do but lay side by side, watch the sky and talk of home—they made the war stretch on and on, and seem too small and short all at once.

“Here I thought you never left her side.”

Merrick sat up abruptly, feeling his feathers prickle. He recognized the voice, even without the revolver pointed at his face. Fletcher sat a few yards away, arms looped loosely around his knees and his hands in plain sight. His black wings seemed like smoke in the moonlight, restless and twisting.

“Easy,” Fletcher added, keeping half an eye out for the appearance of any other angels. “I came to apologize.”

“Apologize?” Merrick frowned.

“Turns out I’m not much cut out for being a demon.” He leaned forward a touch, then tucked his legs underneath him, holding up his hands with palms towards the angel. “I couldn't—” His mouth moved, searching for the right words. “Well, let’s just say I’m not cut out for that crew. I’m sorry I threatened you. That’s all.”

Merrick watched his face under the pale light of the stars, and when he took a breath all he could see was bloody sand, leaning over a German soldier with his stomach torn from sternum to navel, holding his face and whispering that everything would be alright. Pressing cheek to bloody cheek, wishing for another time and another life. Wasn’t heaven supposed to be that other time? He folded his wings, and extended his hand in a silent invitation for Fletcher to come closer. “What’s your name?”

“Fletcher. And I know your name—I was told when I was given the assignment.” Taking one last look around, as if to make sure he wasn’t suddenly surrounded by angels, he crept closer, kneeling an arm’s length from Merrick.

At this distance, without a gun in his face, Merrick could finally get a good look at the demon who tried to kill him. He looked like so many of the young soldiers the angel had spent his youth alongside, like lost children fighting for freedom, fighting for their lives, fighting because what other choice was there. He had the softness of the lost, and the hardness of the ones that made do no matter what, and eyes like the velvet blanket of the night sky, easy to be wrapped in and serenaded by the stars. He caught his breath.

“Fletcher,” Merrick repeated at last. “Thank you. For apologizing. And for not shooting me.” The words seemed lame and shallow, but he wasn’t sure what else to say. “But you were only doing your job, the same as we are, I suppose.” He reached out, laying his hand over Fletcher’s cautiously. “What are you going to do now? I can’t imagine your superiors are going to be very pleased that you failed your job, or that you’re talking to me right now.”

“I’m not certain yet,” he admitted, looking down at their hands. “I haven’t thought that far ahead. I suppose I’ll need to find a place to lay low until they either forget about me, or stop caring. I’m just not sure where that would be.”

Merrick leaned closer, and curled his fingers around Fletcher’s hand. “Let me help you.” He smiled, touching the demon’s chin lightly to get him to meet his eyes. “That’s what angels do, right? They lift you up. They help you. They save you.” He paused, then laughed, covering his face with his hand. “I sound like a fucking postcard.”

“Heaven’s influence, I think.” Fletcher squeezed his hand. “Aren’t angels supposed to be kind of uptight pricks?”

“Aren’t demons supposed to be ruthless and unapologetic?” He stood at last, pulling Fletcher to his feet. “Let’s find you a safe haven to start. Away from your commander’s prying eyes—and mine, for that matter.” God, Teremun would have a fit if he found out what Merrick was doing. Demons were meant to be destroyed, for God and for glory, and for the benefit of mankind.

Or, at least, for the benefit of heaven.

Maybe when he got a moment to step away, he would talk to Chael about it again. But, would Chael tell Eztli where he had hidden his new charge? Would he come back to find Fletcher eviscerated at the end of her blade, before they even had a chance to explain what they were doing?

Whatever it was they were doing.

“You haven’t moved,” Fletcher pointed out quietly, taking both of Merrick’s hands in his. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”

“Not a fucking clue.” He smiled. “But I’m working on it.” He glanced towards the night sky, and in a flash of warm light it was replaced by a low concrete ceiling, lit by a string of bare lights tacked high on the wall. He turned to lead him down the narrow hall, until it opened into a small room furnished with little more than a comfortable couch, and a few shelves full of books, canned food, and a hot plate.

“What is this place?”

“An old bunker. It had been stocked up by someone when there was the threat of the Cold War, and no one’s really used it since then. They’ve forgotten about it—well, the humans have anyway,” he explained. “The last kid I was a guardian of, this was his grandfather’s. He used to hide down here as a child, read books and such. But there was an earthquake and a bunch of rubble blocked the door, so he couldn’t get down here any longer. I figured it would at least buy us some time.”

Fletcher looked around the room, folding his wings at last. “With a few seals to block out unwanted visitors, it could work.”

“I’ll come back tomorrow night to check on you,” Merrick promised. “Abby’s about to wake up, and I need to get back to her. Maybe I’ll see if I can find more information on seals to bring to you.”

The demon caught his arm before he could disappear, and for a moment Merrick felt as if he was going to fall completely into those dark eyes, the call of a siren to a lonely sailor. “Thank you,” Fletcher whispered, and when his fingers slowly released the angel’s arm, Merrick felt his cheeks flush, and he disappeared.


	5. Second Chances

“What the fuck, man?” Fletcher fell off the couch at the puff of smoke and spray of cologne in his face that came as Razi’s greeting.

The demon laughed, tossing him the rest of the bottle. “What? I thought it might help you set the mood with feathers.” He looked around the bunker with his hands on his hips and an unlit match balanced between his teeth. “Not exactly the romantic suite we had pictured you taking him to, but it’ll work.”

Fletcher threw the cologne back at his head with a snarl. “I had to tell him I was in hiding, or he wouldn’t have believed my sudden change of heart. Asshole.”

He caught the bottle before it hit the wall, tsking softly. “Temper, temper. I came to help.”

“I don’t need your help. I know what I’m doing.”

Razi shrugged, sauntering around the couch at last. “Well, that’s a highly debatable fact, kiddo. Adem sent me with the schematics for a few seals that should keep out any angelic prying eyes, and a few others that look enough like demonic seals that the little bird shouldn’t think twice about them. But, we’ll still be able to put our binoculars on and get a good view. So make sure you keep the show interesting, huh?”

Fletcher felt his claws itch, but he just curled his hands into loose fists. “What if I don’t want you watching?”

“Why, you got something to hide?” Razi held up a piece of paper to the wall, going over the pattern with his hand and scorching it into the concrete behind. “You know we don’t get the full cable package in Hell. Nothing else to do but watch our little soldiers do the good work.”

“Maybe you should try knitting.”

“You know what, fledgling? I like this sharp tongue you’ve found all of a sudden.” He pulled out another symbol, repeating the measure on a different wall. “Though you may want to watch who you try to stab with it. Could come back to bite you.”

Fletcher opened his mouth to reply, then had the breath knocked from him as Razi pushed him against one of the bookshelves, an arm over his throat and the smell of sulfur and lies in his face.

“Don’t disappoint, Fletcher,” Razi said quietly, holding him in place even as Fletcher grabbed at his arms to try and catch a breath. “And don’t lose your focus just because the bird’s got some pretty blue eyes. You are to keep him distracted. Pull him from his work. By any means necessary. And if your sultry little swagger and your cock in his mouth don’t do it, then you’d better find the willpower to use your claws.” He shoved three more papers into his hands. “Finish these. Do not disappoint.” He tapped him on the nose, then vanished.

Fletcher coughed from the heavy smoke and the relief on his neck, sinking against the bookshelf. The papers trembled in his hands, and he swore. He lit a cigarette. He took a breath. The cologne he threw in the trash, and he went about finishing the seals Razi had started. Despite the simmering anger and doubt in his chest, scorching the seals gave him something to focus on, and it was good practice for the demonic magic that had come with his wings and claws. He’d have to learn to do more than just light cigarettes eventually anyway, right?

He stepped back when he was finished, and was actually pleased at the symbols left behind. He had no idea which ones were angelic seals, or which were the false demonic ones, but they looked like what was on the paper and it certainly gave the bunker a sense of purpose other than someone’s nervous hoarding. He plucked one of the books from the shelf, then flopped back down on the couch, one wing folded against the cushions, and the other draped over the edge and across the floor. The sun rose, and the sun set, and Fletcher half-dozed on the couch, dreaming of barstools filled with flappers and politicians, lips on his ear, a hand on his thigh, and the sound of ice clinking against glass.

“Fletcher?”

He heard Merrick’s voice on the hazy coattails of dreams. Lips on his ear, a hand on his thigh, and the world tilting slowly as if his life rocked on a ship in harbor. A warm hand touched his arm.

“You awake?” Merrick asked, leaning over him, automatically checking for any signs of injuries on the demon.

Fletcher’s eyes opened, blinking away the last clouds of sleep to see his angel so close to his face, wreathed in soft feathers and with a frown over those sea-blue eyes like he could hear the whistle of a coming storm. Did Merrick see it while he had slept? Could he still feel the smoke and betrayal that Razi left behind?

Or was it just the reek of the cologne still heavy in his nose?

“I’m awake,” he slurred, his wings stretching to give him room to move. “Sorry. Didn’t hear you come.”

“I see you got the seals in place.” Merrick pulled back at last, going to inspect the scorched walls. “Must be working too, because while I was waiting for Abby to fall asleep I tried to check in on you, and I couldn’t see anything. Nearly gave me a panic attack. I thought maybe someone had found you. These are demonic ones, here?”

Fletcher nodded, despite the knot curling in the pit of his stomach. “Yeah.”

“Where did you learn to do these?”

“I did some studying while I was still earning my wings in Hell. Guess I remembered more than I thought.” He swung his legs over the edge of the couch, watching Merrick’s back. The slight roll in every step he took, the outline of muscles he could see through his shirt along his back, supporting those heavy white wings. White, flecked with gray like the pattern of rain on glass.

“You never know when things like that come in handy, huh?” Merrick looked over his shoulder, moving one wing out of the way to flash him a smile. “So no one found you here? No one bothered you?”

Fletcher shook his head. He could still feel the tightness of Razi’s arm across his throat. “No, not at all. I read a few books. I slept. It was a nice change. Though, I could use a radio down here.”

“I could probably get you wi-fi,” Merrick teased, his smile widening. “It would keep you occupied for awhile. And help you catch up too, I think.”

“Catch up?”

The angel shrugged, leaning his back against the wall and folding his arms over his chest. His wings sprawled to either side of him. Fletcher watched the way the speckles on his feathers danced. He could see the bottom ink of a tattoo peeking out from Merrick’s right sleeve. “Well, you haven’t been out of Hell that long, have you?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“You don’t look like someone who’s comfortable with modern dress, for one thing,” he chuckled, nodding towards his suit coat. “I’m going to bring you a pair of jeans. Or better yet, sweatpants. And a phone with internet access. Maybe you’ll even drop that little accent of yours.”

“I don’t have an accent,” Fletcher argued, not sure if he felt more offended or flustered. “And I’m not the one who still walks like the ground is moving.”

Merrick laughed. “Look, I’ve lived twice, and I was on a ship both times. My feet don’t know what to do on solid ground.”

“Lived twice?” he repeated. That didn’t make any sense at all. When people died, they went to heaven or hell right away, right? That was kind of the whole point of the Bible, wasn’t it? Saving the souls of the righteous. At least, that’s what he had always heard from the preachers. The ones who were so quick to damn him. He could remember being fourteen years old, tied to the bed, dehydrated and feverish as the priest performed an exorcism while his mother sobbed for a cure, and his father stood against the wall, arms crossed and stone faced. Hell seemed tolerable.

“Yeah, and I keep getting threatened from my boss that he’ll send my sorry ass back to earth to try a third time if I don’t shape up.” For as heavy as the threat seemed, Merrick’s voice was casual, and he rolled his eyes. “You’ve heard of purgatory, right? Well, it’s pretty much Earth. They can’t decide if you belong up or down? They send you back to try again. And again, sometimes. Though I’m not really looking to lose my wings now that I finally went north. Teremun is all talk anyway.” He paused, looking towards the bare lights thoughtfully. “And a dick.”

“I didn’t know that was even possible,” Fletcher said quietly, but his thoughts were inward, the knot in his stomach turning into a burning ember. If he could have had another chance on Earth, then why did they decide he was so wicked as to go to Hell? He wasn’t as bad as Razi, and certainly not as bad as Adem, or a hundred other demons he had met below. Sure, he had robbed and killed, but he had been surviving. He was doing what he had to, to escape a family that hated him for who he was, and to find a way to keep his stomach full and his head sheltered. If he had gone to Hell, were all those crooked cops there with him? Did his parents go there? Or did they get the second chances he didn’t, all because of—because of what?

“Are you okay?” Merrick’s easy smile had faded, and the angel took two steps towards him, hand outstretched.

“Not really.” He didn’t want to admit that aloud, but his tongue seemed to be moving without him. His wings quivered. “I’m just…” His mouth groped for the word, trying to describe the feeling that burned in his gut, so hot it seemed ready to tear a hole and send him spilling onto the floor. “I just wish I knew what it took to get second chances.”

Merrick’s hand touched his cheek, and his eyes found focus on the angel’s face. The eyes that clouded with concern, the sea that rose and broke, searching for a way to cure the pain. Fletcher could feel the warmth of his palm, the gentle brush of fingers against his temple that seemed to for a moment clear the acrid smoke that filled his head. Fletcher thought about dark alleyways and kissing cops, about speakeasies and lips against his ear, about hands sliding down thighs in the back of smuggling trucks. He thought of the boiling sea, and second chances, and duty. Of Razi’s arm across his throat. Of Merrick’s hand on his face.

Fletcher closed the space between them, pressing his forehead against the angel’s and closing his eyes. His lips ached. “I think I just need more time. And like you said—some time to get to know the world up here.”

“I’ll get you everything you need,” Merrick promised. He pulled back breathlessly, and when he smiled, it didn’t reach the troubled sea. “I’ll be back tomorrow night.”

Fletcher blinked, and he was gone, leaving behind a single feather and the smell of saltwater.

Maybe second chances never came to cowards.


	6. The Glory of Heaven

As it turned out, Merrick was right about the wi-fi—of all of the modern inventions Fletcher had used so far, the little smart phone and the hotspot opened the largest world of opportunities for him. Merrick brought him dim sum and hot tea, he brought him books and takeout pizza, he brought him rum and french fries. He gave him a credit card to use to buy apps and music, he brought him blankets and jeans and plaid pajama pants, and never stayed for more than a few minutes, claiming his concern for prying eyes and his assignment.

Whenever he left, Fletcher felt as if the breath had been stolen from him.

Still, he had plenty of distractions. He caught up on the world through his phone, he lounged on the little couch in the clothes Merrick had given him, he read books, and he ignored the nagging feeling that Razi would be back soon, telling him to get to work. He wasn’t really in hiding. He had a job to do.

“You look better,” Merrick greeted, sitting on the arm of the couch as the stars hung high above, his wings still carrying the reflection of moonlight and the breath of fresh air. “How are you feeling?”

“Overwhelmed.” He felt the smile tug at his lips before he was aware of it. He swallowed, and sat up. He had a job to do. “Lonely, a bit. I’m so used to being surrounded by people—and demons—all the time. It’s so quiet in here. Can you stay tonight?”

Merrick folded his wings, his hands twisting in his lap. “I shouldn’t stay for too long. I wouldn’t want them to notice I was missing, but…yes. I can stay awhile. Keep you company, at least. I feel like the last time we talked, you were—well, I didn’t want to upset you again.”

“I wasn’t upset.” That wasn’t entirely true; after Merrick had left, he spent hours just thinking about the conversation. About why he was destined for hell, when so many others got second chances. Or made it to heaven despite their indiscretions. “I was just—” He groped for the words. “I’ve been to church, when I was alive. I know about the Ten Commandments, about what is expected, about forgiveness, but I don’t know why I didn’t get the same second chance that you did. There are so many people worse than me, ones that I lived with, and definitely ones I’ve been below with. Why was I destined for hell? What did I do that was so very wrong?”

“I’m probably not the best person to ask about this,” Merrick said after a long pause, his arms folding over his chest. “But, I do know that being good or evil isn’t a competition. It’s not about who you were better than, or worse than, or whatever else. It’s more about what choices you made when you were faced with morally gray situations. Did you choose to help someone in need? Did you make a choice for someone else’s benefit, even if it hurt you? Did you choose the option of mercy, or violence?”

“I had no choices like that,” Fletcher defended. “Surely God could see that.”

“Are you certain?” Merrick asked gently. “I can tell you, in my second lifetime, I was a medic during the second World War. I killed many men in the defense of my people and my country, but there were also many times that I didn’t kill. I helped the wounded, no matter who they fought for, because they were still men. When they surrendered, we did not harm them. When we took over cities, we did not harm the civilians. I gave my bread to those who hungered more than me. Do you understand? It’s not all about whether you killed or not. It’s about what you do every day. How you are as a person.” He bit his lower lip thoughtfully. “At least, that’s how I’ve come to understand it. But, I don’t think you’re a bad person, Fletcher. If you were, you would have killed me when you had the chance. I don’t know why you weren’t offered a second chance and I was, but I think I can help you get that now. I’ve heard stories of demons becoming angels in the past, earning their redemption. I could talk to someone in the Garrison about it.”

“I’m not sure any other angels would be willing to talk to me.” Fletcher felt the familiar knot churn in his stomach. Other angels, without Merrick’s trusting eyes—would they see right through him? Would they know? Or would he shove them against the wall, too, kiss them in alleyways and shoot them in streets?

How could he possibly think there was a road of redemption for him?

“Chael would talk to you,” Merrick insisted. “He’s a fair man, and I trust him with my life. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t tell Eztli about you.”

“You know the other demons call her the Reaper?” he asked quietly, folding his wings tighter against his back.

“I’m not surprised. You really should talk to Chael—half of the Garrison are all people that probably shouldn’t have made it to heaven, if you just look at the bad things they had done in life. He can explain all of this a lot better than I can.”

“I’ll think about it.” He had a lot to think about. First and foremost, though, was keeping Merrick around for longer. Fulfilling his duty. Distracting him. Drinking in the blue sea of his eyes. Fletcher stood, setting aside his phone. “I wanted to thank you—”

“You already have,” the angel assured.

“It is no easy thing,” Fletcher went on, “forgiving someone who tried to kill you. Twice.”

“You learn a lot from spending time in heaven,” Merrick chuckled. “Though, I think perhaps I’m too forgiving. I have a tendency to make poor decisions when it comes to friends—and lovers.”

That knot tightened like a noose, but Fletcher touched Merrick’s arm anyway. “To be honest, I was never good at that, either. I’m hoping I can do better this time around. Maybe find my redemption in someone like you.”

“Someone like me,” he repeated. “I don’t think I’m good enough for that. I’m barely an angel.”

Fletcher’s fingers traced a thin line up his arm, over his shoulder, then came to rest against his cheek. “You’re more angel than me.” He should have left, should have gone back to hell defeated. If he was really looking for redemption, he should have made the choice to save Merrick and let himself be damned. But Fletcher poured himself into that forgiving sea, leaned forward, and kissed his target.

He expected Merrick to pull back, to protest, to do anything but lean in and put a hand on his shoulder. Fletcher broke for breath, taking only a moment of air before he went in again, wanting that taste of heaven like sea and fire, salt and promise, forgiveness and temptation. Merrick wrapped his arms around his neck and he felt all the knot in his stomach turn to fluttering wings like a captive bird, or maybe the bird that held him captive.

“Please.” Merrick whispered against his lips, the space between them barely enough for words. He pressed his forehead against Fletcher’s, and his arms tightened across his shoulders. “Please, Fletcher. Let me help you. Let me bring Chael to talk to you. He’ll know how to find redemption for you. Then, you can finally see the glory of heaven.”

Fletcher had no breath left, but he closed his eyes and agreed with another kiss. If this warm glow was the glory of heaven, then he had already found it.


	7. White Lies

Merrick returned to Abby running late, but with such a lightness in his chest he felt as if he were flying the whole way. It didn’t matter how late he was; she was always later. By the time he got back to her, she was still throwing on her clothes and searching for her badge for the lab, swearing up and down all the while. He casually moved her badge onto the bedside table from where it had fallen into a pile of dirty clothes, and whispered soothing words in her ear to get her to breathe.

If only he knew the words to get his own fluttering heart to calm.

Somehow, between his gentle nudges and Abby’s whirlwind, they were both out the door and into her car in the next twenty minutes. Merrick quietly influenced the lights to turn green a touch sooner, for cars to switch lanes, hoping between that and her lead foot, she would be to work more or less on time. This internship was everything that she wanted in life—he couldn’t let something as simple as her disorganization at home be the reason her passion was quelled. Besides, Teremun said her research was important, and to keep her on track. And he needed his job, too.

Unless he got another assignment. After all, wouldn’t be converting a demon to an angel be more important than one more human soul? Especially one who didn’t seem at all to be on the path to damnation? While Abby gathered her belongings and hurried into the concrete building, Merrick trailed after her with his thoughts anywhere but his charge. The question was more, how could he convince Teremun?

And would the man even give him the time of day?

Would he give it to Fletcher?

Would any of the angels see that the demon, despite his anger and his frustration, despite his trigger-finger and his pride, was worthy of saving?

“I’m sorry I’m late, Dr. Georgian,” Abby greeted, practically throwing her purse and jacket into a locker and flashing the older man a smile. “Traffic was terrible.”

“You’re technically not late today,” he assured, holding out a white lab coat for her. “Did your other job keep you late?”

“You shouldn’t lie,” Merrick put in quietly. “He doesn’t seem to care if you’re late or not. You do a good job. Just tell him the truth. He’ll forgive.”

“Yeah,” Abby lied. “Lots of packages this time of year.”

Merrick scrubbed his hand across his face. Maybe she did need a bit of work, but white lies weren’t enough to damn a soul nowadays.

“We’re expecting a visitor today,” Georgian began, leading her into the lab proper. “Someone who has done a bit of research like ours, and may have some input.”

Abby twirled her hair into a bun as she walked, balancing a pen between her teeth. “I didn’t think anyone was doing research like ours,” she slurred around the pen, before she sucked her spit back into her mouth and wiggled the pen into her hair, holding the bun in place.

“Sexy,” Merrick noted dryly. “Honey, we need to buy you some real hair supplies, instead of Bic pens.”

Georgian shrugged. “He approached me about it. I received a call from him yesterday. He said he read on my theories of internal energy and had some leads for us to follow.”

“Internal energy,” Abby repeated with a sigh. “You sure he’s not just coming to mock us, like the last reporter that came through?”

“The last reporter was an asshole,” Merrick put in, as if he could be heard. He perched on the edge of one of the metal tables, folding his wings thoughtfully. “He called Dr. Georgian a crackpot. But you know, I may not really understand what you’re doing here, but I think he’s onto something.”

“He is onto something.”

A rustle of wings startled the young angel, and he twisted around to face Teremun, falling off the table in the process. He quickly caught himself, fumbling to his feet and standing at attention. “I didn’t hear you coming,” he greeted lamely, internally wincing. Teremun may have been a stone angel in a graveyard for all the amusement etched on his face. Though half a head shorter than Merrick, his presence seemed forever looming, shadowed and disapproving as ever. He still had the look of old Egypt in his dark skin and black hair, but he seemed more one of the carved Gods on a sandstone wall, judgmental and damning.

“How is she doing?” Teremun asked, folding his white wings and watching Merrick intently.

“Running late again.” Merrick glanced back at her, just to break eye contact a moment. “But working hard. She is passionate about it.”

“Feed that passion, and see that she gets her life together,” Teremun tsked. “What she is doing is important, and more important that she is destined for heaven, should something come of it.”

“Why?” Merrick folded his arms over his chest like a plate of armor, leaning his back against the metal table and half-listening to the scientists drone about something or other behind him. “They’re researching energy.”

“Energy drawn from living things,” Teremun corrected. “And the most you need to know is that it’s important. It could change the course of heaven and hell, and be the turning point in this war between us. It could change everything.” He stepped forward, and put his hand against Merrick’s cheek. His palm was hot, like a quiet warning of hell fire, like the pulse of the sun, like a promise of a slap. Merrick didn’t pull back. His fingertips quivered. “Do not let yourself be distracted, Merrick.” Teremun’s voice was quiet, but his eyes were focused on the other angel’s, pinning him in place until Merrick felt every feather stand on end. For what seemed an eternity, Teremun watched his face, and Merrick was sure that he could see every sin, every indiscretion, every thought about Fletcher and salvation and kissing the demon in the bunker.

Then, the heat was gone, and so was Teremun. Merrick swallowed, his cheek burning and his knees weak. Maybe the other angels were afraid of Eztli and the Garrison, or even afraid of demons and hellhounds, but Merrick knew few things more unnerving than his boss’s stare. And he was left with no more answers than he had in the beginning, aside from one thing.

He was not going to tell him about Fletcher.

Merrick raked his fingers through his hair, and turned back around to watch Abby and Georgian again, finding a place to sit where he was less likely to go tumbling. They went about their work for hours, and the angel found himself starting to daydream. He propped his feet up on one of the metal tables, leaning back in a chair and letting his wings drape to either side. How was Fletcher combating this ceaseless boredom? More importantly, had he thought about how to be a better person, and earn his feathered wings? Merrick could hardly imagine having him in heaven with him—one kiss, and he was already enamored.

Again, he found himself falling for someone he shouldn’t.

He laced his fingers behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. He could remember being in Hawaii, stretched on the sand beside another young soldier as they took their Sunday free time not to pray in church, not to read letters from home and sleep in for once, but to swim naked in the warm waters, to lay under the sun and litter each other with salt-stained kisses on every inch of flesh they could find. It was like heaven, until the first plane roared overhead, and the first explosion woke them from heavy daydreams. Until the war finally came to American soil, and he spent days in the hospital, tending to the wounded and dying, washing blood from the floors day after day after day. Watching his lover be sent home with his leg amputated and his daydreaming eyes haunted and hollow.

He could remember the Battle of Iwo Jima, the month of fighting and the month of screaming soldiers writhing under his hands. The eyes of a Japanese soldier who looked up at him in his dying moments, mouthing words he couldn’t understand, crying for love and salvation and a mother that prayed for his safe return. Merrick gave him morphine to ease his passing. He cried.

He looked over the prisoners they took from the network of tunnels and caves, and he could remember one young man named Kyou who spoke English badly, but better than Merrick spoke English. He called Merrick blue-eyes. When an infection spiked Kyou’s temperature and he thrashed in fever-dreams for days, Merrick tended to him every hour. When the battle was finally won, and the graves were finally filled, Merrick told him that the war would be over soon. Kyou said that he loved him. Merrick hoped and feared that it was an error in translation. When he had to return to the fleet to sail on to Okinawa, and Kyou was to be taken away with the rest of the prisoners of war, Merrick held his hands and whispered that he loved him, too.

He never saw him again.

Merrick snapped out of daydreams when the conversation in the room stopped. He sat up, blinking the dampness from his eyes and swinging his feet off of the table at last. It wasn’t like Abby to be quiet, or Georgian for that matter, but when he saw the reason why, even his breath caught.

“Dr. Toussaint. Thank you for coming to see us,” Georgian greeted, extending his hand.

At first sight, the angel knew that this stranger was not normal. Normal humans didn’t not exude a sort of quiet promise of power, and normal humans did not carry a shadow with them like a second soul, and most of all, normal humans did not make direct eye contact with him.

“A pleasure to meet you,” he said coolly, looking away from Merrick at last to make his proper introductions to the visible people in the room. “Please, you can call me Raen. I have a doctorate in philosophy—it’s hardly worth mentioning. Thank you for allowing me to see your research.”

“How does one with a doctorate in philosophy come to take an interest in alternative energy resources?”

“We happen to have a shared interest not in renewable energy, but in the source.” Again, those gray eyes looked to Merrick, lingering just long enough to assure the angel that he knew he was there. “Have you determined yet what is causing the low levels of energy outputs in every human on earth?”

“Well, I’m fairly certain that it has something to do with the electrical impulses in our nerve endings,” Georgian said enthusiastically. “If we could find a way to tap into that—”

Raen’s smile was more in his eyes than his mouth, and he sat down across from Merrick, tucking his hands into his oversized sleeves. “If we could find a way to tap into that,” he finished for Georgian, “the possibilities are limitless.”


	8. Weak at the Knees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: There is some non-sexual nudity in this chapter.

“Is this what you call distracting him?”

Fletcher had been dreaming of much more pleasant things when Razi appeared, and that snide tone was certainly enough to startle him awake. He opened one eye with a groan of disapproval, looking up to the other demon. “What are you talking about?”

“You are supposed to be pulling Merrick from his work so that we have a chance to step in,” Razi reminded him sharply. “He is currently at work and—well, mostly paying attention. If he’s going with her, you need to start going with him.”

“How am I supposed to convince him of that, when he thinks I’m hiding from all of you?”

The demon leaned over the back of the couch. “Figure it out, fledgling. The boss is looking for results on this.”

Fletcher sat up abruptly. “If all of this is so important, why am I on it instead of you? Why don’t you just go kill Merrick and be done with it?” As soon as the words left his mouth, a cold hand wrapped around his heart. What if Razi took him up on that?

Well, what did he care? Merrick was an assignment.

Razi chuckled. “Every soldier gets a task. Everyone pulls their weight in Hell, if you want to keep your wings. And I didn’t say that this was important. For your sake, don’t fuck it up.”

“Yeah, and what do you care about my sake?”

Claws curled into his collar, dragging him closer to Razi’s vicious smirk. “We’re just like corporate here, kid. Your success is my success. And shit rolls downhill, so don’t dredge any more up from the bottom, huh? Otherwise you might drown in it.”

Fletcher reached into his jacket, thumbing the grip of his gun, but Razi was already gone. He cursed, flopping back down on the couch. What was he going to do, anyway? Shoot his superior and hope that everything worked out in the end? Run away again, and see if he could find some other family to protect him from the first one?

Even in death, was that to be his fate?

And would the angels be that family? He pulled out the gun again, sliding his fingers across the decorated grip. Could he run away? The next time Razi showed up, he could just stick the muzzle in his face and blow him away, take Merrick’s hand and run north. Start over. Again.

Maybe this really was purgatory, after all.

“Seems like you’ve had a day as weird as mine,” Merrick greeted, perched on the arm of the couch and looking down at his frown.

Fletcher startled. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Obviously,” he chuckled. He leaned over, kissing his forehead. “Something you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know if my thoughts are together enough to talk.” Not when he was staring directly into the smiling blue of Merrick’s eyes, the angel hovering over top of him. Maybe he could do both—distract Merrick enough to get Razi off of his back, and while the demon was likewise distracted, work his way into Heaven’s good graces. He could play both sides. He could come out on top. He could win. For once.

“How about enough to listen?” Merrick asked. He nudged the demon over, then plopped down on the couch beside him, wanting nothing more than to be near him. Fletcher automatically lifted his arm so that Merrick could slide in, and soon enough the angel was nestled with his head against his chest, one arm looped casually across his hips. “So, you know how human souls look, right?”

Fletcher nodded, only half listening. He slid his fingers through the dark tangle of Merrick’s hair, and watched the curve of one freckled wing as it arched over him.

“Have you ever seen a human soul with a shadow on it? Or have you ever known a mortal to look you in the eye? He knew I was there. It was like he was talking right to me.”

“I haven’t really had the chance to hang around on earth much, but I definitely haven’t had anyone notice me that wasn’t angel or demon. Are you sure he wasn’t one of those in disguise?”

He shook his head some, ending up nuzzling against his collarbone. Fletcher felt his heart trip a beat. Merrick’s hand tightened around his hip. “No, he definitely wasn’t. He was someone interested in Abby’s work, though. Which quite frankly, I don’t understand. And no one will tell me anything about it.” He frowned. “They treat me like a fucking child sometimes. I’m pretty sure my boss thinks I’m stupid.”

“Your boss sounds like a dick.”

“You have no idea.” He tilted his head to look up at Fletcher again, his smile looking almost drunk. “I’ll ask Chael about it. He seems to know the answers to everything.”

“Did you tell anyone about me, yet?”

“Not yet. I don’t know how to…approach the subject,” he admitted. His wing flexed, the feathers warm and soft against Fletcher’s arm. “It’s not like you find angels bringing demons home a lot. There is kind of an ongoing war against that sort of thing. But—” that frown worked between his eyes again “—I’ve fought in enough wars before to know that things are never black and white. There are those that believe in the ideology, good or bad, and there are those that are just soldiers, because of the draft, because they felt pressured, because they had no other way to feed their families.”

“What am I, then?” Fletcher whispered, raking his fingers along Merrick’s scalp, as if he could soothe away both the angel’s frown and his own doubt.

Merrick turned over onto his back, sprawling his wings to either side and resting his head in Fletcher’s lap to look up at him properly. He slid the back of his knuckles down the demon’s cheek. “You tell me.”

Fletcher smiled despite himself, that nagging doubt pushed aside for the feeling of Merrick’s skin against his. “I am restless,” he evaded. “I think these four walls are starting to close in on me a bit.”

“Well, I don’t know how safe it is to go out, but…” His voice trailed off a moment. “I guess you’re not one that’s really worried about the risks, huh?”

“Are you?”

Merrick’s smile sent a flush through his body. “Probably not as much as I should be.” He sat up at last, taking both of Fletcher’s hands. “How about a date?”

“I don’t know that I’ve ever actually gone on a date. I mean, I had plenty of flings, but—”

“To be honest, I don’t know that I’ve gone on a date before, either,” he laughed. “I lived through two wars, and died in battle. Didn’t leave a lot of time for courting.”

“Did you even—”

“I didn’t die a virgin, if that’s what you’re asking,” Merrick grinned. “I said I haven’t been on a date, not that I was a fucking prude.” He stood, and pulled Fletcher to his feet. “Come on, I have an idea for a date that I think you’ll like. You grew up in the city when you were alive, right?”

“Born and raised. And died, I guess.”

Merrick squeezed his hands. The cool walls of the bunker were replaced by bright sunshine, a long stretch of white sand, and a glittering ocean. Fletcher felt his breath catch, his head on a swivel. As much as he had spent a week exploring before he went to attack Merrick, the world still held so many surprises for him. And made all the better by the fingers laced with his, eagerly squeezing.

“Where are we?”

“Hawaii. Last time I was on this beach, I didn’t really get to enjoy it. I thought maybe we both could now. Do you know how to swim?”

“No. How do you swim with wings as big as yours anyway?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t tried it yet,” Merrick laughed. He let go of him at last, sitting on the sand to start to take off his boots. “I thought we’d give it a try.”

“I guess we can’t drown, right?”

Merrick shrugged. “I have no idea. Are you afraid?”

Fletcher watched him kick off his boots, then pull off his shirt, the cloth somehow not getting tangled in his wings. His answer was lost, just watching the curve of the angel’s bare shoulders, the way his hands moved to undo the buckle of his belt, the muscles in his stomach that trailed down to form a little V between his hips as if in silent invitation.

“Fletcher?”

“Shit,” he whispered, feeling a heat in his face. He ducked his head quickly, sitting to take off his clothes as well. “Sorry—no. I’m not afraid.”

“You’re blushing,” Merrick laughed. He tossed his belt at him playfully.

“I told you I don’t know how to swim. I’m just thinking about how much I’m going to end up embarrassing myself.” When he looked up again, Merrick was standing with his back to him, his jeans in a pile on top of the rest of his clothes. Framed by the sunlight, Fletcher couldn’t decide what he wanted to look at most—the way the wind rustled his hair, the spread of his wings, the way they connected to the muscles of his back, the lean stretch of his legs, or the curve of his bare ass.

Son of a bitch.

“We won’t go that deep,” Merrick promised, flashing him a smile over his shoulder before he headed for the water.

Fletcher fumbled to take off the rest of his clothes as quickly as he could. He kicked off the last leg of his pants, tripping over them.

Merrick stood in waist-deep water, laughing at him. “You need help?”

“I get to choose the next date,” the demon protested, finally shaking off the last of his clothes and heading for the water’s edge. “I don’t know how I feel about this.”

Merrick watched him approach the water with a grin that didn’t seem angelic. “I feel pretty good about it.”

God, that smile and those words, it was all enough to Fletcher to feel heat creep from ear to ear, and he automatically dropped his hands over his groin. It took a moment for him to remember that he had nothing embarrassing to hide, even as he went into the water up to his knees.

The perks of being dead.

The feel of the sand beneath his bare feet, the warm water, the sunlight, and Merrick’s hand on his, guiding him deeper—it was like falling into a dream, or waking from one. A wave broke over Merrick’s back, and he spread his dripping wings with a laugh.

“These things are fucking heavy when they’re wet,” he protested.

“You were the one that wanted to go swimming.” Fletcher curved one of his own wings around them both as another wave nudged against them, the water splashing backwards from the leathery surface. “I don’t have that problem with mine.”

“Then you had better come closer and keep me dry.” Merrick caught him by the hips, tugging him in. The sand shifted beneath his feet, and Fletcher all-but fell into the angel’s arms, feeling laughter bubbling light and easy in his chest.

“I am so choosing the next date.” He wrapped his arms around Merrick’s neck, his fingers toying with the angel’s wet feathers. “I feel like I can’t stand out here.”

“Weak at the knees?” he teased, his hands hooked securely around Fletcher’s waist, steady despite the shifting water.

Fletcher looked into his eyes, and could have sworn he was looking out to sea, blue and glimmering and playful and strong, and he couldn’t help but wonder how Razi ever saw this angel as an easy target. “Maybe,” he allowed. “I’ve lived on concrete and brimstone all my life. Steady.”

“Water is steady,” Merrick countered, his fingers spreading out along Fletcher’s lower back, mapping his skin. “Once you realize she is a living thing. She’s as steady as the rest of us.”

“Water is not a person,” Fletcher laughed. “You do sound like an old sailor. You sure you shouldn’t be growing a beard and wearing one of those stupid hats?”

Merrick shook out his wings, sending water droplets flying all around them, glimmering like crystals in the sun. “I am an old sailor, and a romantic,” he teased. “But I’m also not wrong. You need to spend more time in the world, Fletcher. When you’re free of those demons chasing you, we’ll see everything together. Nothing is steady, and everything is, and there is more life in the world than just in human bodies. I’ve been to places where the air itself seems to have a personality. I want to take you to those places.”

“I will follow you anywhere.” The words left Fletcher’s lips before he was aware of them, and he pulled Merrick’s face closer to his, catching his mouth in a kiss so heated he was afraid sparks would ignite between them. When he pulled back for breath, he found himself laughing again, a wave cresting higher and splashing over both of their shoulders. “Can we get out of the fucking water?”

Merrick wiped sand from his cheek, his wings sagging under the wet weight. “Only because you asked so politely,” he teased.

Fletcher took him by the wrist, sloshing back towards the shore and doing his best not to fall on his face along the way. Merrick, for once, was off-balance, trying to shake the water from his wings as soon as they were back on the shore.

“Maybe I should have brought us a towel,” he laughed.

“You think?”

“I feel like a stiff breeze could knock me off my feet like this.” Merrick spread his wings with a grimace, watching the water drip off of his feathers.

“Maybe not only a stiff breeze.” Fletcher took him by the shoulders and gave him a little shove, toppling him back onto the sand. He followed him down, laughing when Merrick tried to flip him over. He took hold of the angel’s wrists, pinning them lightly to the sand and stealing a kiss. “Your feathers are full of water and sand. What were you gonna do if you got me off of you?”

“Probably flail like a landed fish,” Merrick laughed, looking up at his face adoringly. “What are you gonna do, now that you’ve got me pinned down here, demon?”

Fletcher’s smile showed a hint of fangs. “I have a few ideas.” He leaned down to kiss him again, folding his damp wings against his back to protect his skin from the sun, allowing Merrick a view of the clear blue sky over his shoulder at last.

And something else.

“Tyr, no!”

Merrick wrapped his arms around Fletcher and pulled the demon to one side, a throwing axe burying into the sand where Fletcher’s hand had been a moment prior. Fletcher swore, wishing his clothes and weapon were nearer at hand, but when he raised his arm to defend himself, his gun had materialized in his palm.

One day he would get used to this demonic magic.

He leveled the gun at the head of the other angel who stood in the sand, but when he fired, the bullet ricocheted off of the round shield Tyr held.

“Fletcher, for God’s sake put your gun down!” Merrick scrambled to his knees, dragged backwards by his wet wings, but he tugged the demon behind him before he could do any more damage. “Tyr, wait, please—”

Tyr lowered his shield a touch, a second axe already in his free hand, but he kept it near to his hip. “Merrick, I thought this demon was attacking you. Are you alright?”

Fletcher gripped the gun harder, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. His instincts screamed for him to run, but Merrick’s hand was on his arm, and the angel had placed himself squarely in between him and the newcomer. Tyr. He had heard that name before. Wasn’t he a part of the same Garrison that had the Reaper?

“He’s not attacking me. Not—not any longer.” Merrick spread his hand pleadingly, and Fletcher could see his wings shaking, though he couldn’t tell if it was from strain or emotion as they rained down sand and water on him.

“Not any longer?” Tyr repeated. The axe disappeared, shortly followed by the shield. “He shot at me.”

“You startled us.”

“Why are you both naked?”

A blush spread across Merrick’s nose, and he stuttered for an answer.

Tyr shook his head. “I think you need to go talk to Chael. I’ll stay down here with the demon.”

“Tyr—”

“I promise, I won’t hurt him. And I’ll make sure Eztli doesn’t find him, either. At least not until after you’ve spoken with Chael.”

“I could go back to the bunker,” Fletcher volunteered quietly, pressing himself against Merrick’s back and clutching his gun like a life raft. “I am not staying here with that angel. He’ll kill me.”

“He won’t,” Merrick whispered. “Tyr, promise me you won’t.”

“I already said that I won’t hurt him. Killing would be an escalation of that, wouldn’t it?” Tyr smiled, and showed his empty hands. “By Odin, you have my word. We’ll be waiting right here for you.”

“By Odin,” Fletcher repeated scathingly. “What the hell kind of angel are you leaving me with?”

“One that I trust,” Merrick promised, touching his face with pleading in his eyes. Pleading, worry, but not fear. “I’ll be back soon. Don’t shoot him.”

When Merrick disappeared, leaving only him and Tyr on the beach, Fletcher wasn’t so sure he could make good on that bargain.


	9. Interlude: An Angel and a Demon Walk Onto a Beach...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a requested addition, from readers curious what happened when Tyr and Fletcher were left alone on the beach. Fletcher is still nude for most of this, as continued content warning.

The moment Merrick disappeared, Fletcher found himself with nothing in between him and Tyr but a stretch of sand and a thousand questions he didn’t want to voice.

Starting with, where were his clothes?

Fletcher crossed his legs and covered himself up with his hands, awkwardly holding the gun, refusing to let go of the one weapon he had against the angel. Even if it didn’t seem to have done more than put a ding in his shield.

“So,” Tyr began awkwardly, kneeling on the sand and drumming his fingers against his thighs. “What’s your name?”

“I really don’t want to talk to you.” Fletcher worried his lower lip between his teeth. “You know Merrick will never forgive you if you kill me.”

“Oh, Thor’s hammer—” he groaned. “I’m not—I’m not gonna kill you. Though if you try to shoot me again, I may have to maim you a little.” His smile was playful, but it gave Fletcher no reassurance.

“Where are my clothes?”

Tyr shrugged, folding his wings and well aware of the pile of clothing behind him. “I don’t know. Why were you skinny dipping with Merrick?”

“It was his idea.” Fletcher wasn’t sure if his voice sounded more defensive or meek, but he hated it. “I don’t even know how to swim.”

He smiled some, and seemed to enjoy how the demon squirmed.

A part of Fletcher couldn’t blame him—he must look ridiculous, nude and covered in sand, holding his damned gun over his groin in a manner that was both entirely unsafe and could be conceived as an innuendo. He set the weapon down in front of him instead, moving slowly so that Tyr wouldn’t take it as an excuse for a threat and bury that axe in his eye. “Why…did you promise Merrick you wouldn’t hurt me by Odin? Aren’t you an angel of Heaven?”

“What makes you think that Heaven is a Christian idea?” Tyr’s smile was hard to read.

“This popular book called the Bible.”

The angel shook his head. “Modeled after what humans could see. According to my father, anyway. Look, I don’t really get the ins and outs of what Heaven is and what angels are, but I can tell you one thing—I have never seen a God up there. So as far as I’m concerned, I’m still waiting for Valhalla.”

“You’re a weird fucking angel,” Fletcher scoffed. “Listen, I’m just gonna—ah—leave. I’ll wait for Merrick. He knows where to find me.”

“If you think I’m going to let you smoke back to Hell until I have word from my boss, then you’re mistaken.”

Fletcher wasn’t going to stick around and banter—he made to vanish before Tyr could get up. But, the angel seized him by the wrist, pulling him back onto the sand before he could go. Fletcher found himself face to face with the angel, and his heart leapt into his throat. He was going to die like this, looking into the intense eyes of a fucking viking.

But Tyr smiled, and in his other hand he held Fletcher’s pants. “You were gonna leave without these?”

“What—” Tyr released his wrist, and Fletcher tugged his clothes back on, well aware that his face was red and his heart was pounding and the worst part of all of it was that he couldn’t run anywhere. The angel at least had the decency to step back and give him room to dress, but oh how Fletcher wanted to punch the little smirk off of his face.

If only he could throw a decent punch.

Tyr casually sat back down on the beach again, watching the water instead of his charge. He leaned back on his hands, stretching out his long legs contentedly. “You know, the beaches where I grew up were never this nice. I could get used to this. What do you think, demon?”

“I think,” he began quietly, “I’d rather not talk until Merrick comes back.”

Tyr shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He was quiet for a few moments, watching the water break across the shore. Fletcher watched him cautiously, and when he blinked, the angel had vanished. Before he could really compute what had happened, Tyr was back again, holding two pint glasses.

“We don’t have to talk,” the angel assured, handing him a glass before he sat back down to watch the water.

Fletcher looked down at the glass, then back at Tyr. In the curve of his bronze-edged feathers, in the way his eyes reflected the sun and the sea, in the muscles of his arms, the demon could see heaven. He could see heaven the same way Merrick showed it to him, but in the axe glinting on the sand, the scars of battle that marked down the left side of Tyr’s neck, he knew that the viking was not without his own sins. So why were his wings feathered and full of light and promise, and Fletcher still sat here, holding a pint of beer and shaking sand from his leathery wings?

He took a drink. “Have you ever known a demon to get to Heaven?” he asked at last.

Tyr smiled, but didn’t take his eyes off the sea. “Not specifically. But I know a lot of angels that don’t deserve to be there, so anything is possible.”

For some reason, hearing that from someone’s mouth aside from Merrick’s gave him hope.

Even if it was from the mouth of a battle-scarred, impudent, smirking viking.


	10. Interlude: A Demon and an Angel Walk Onto a Beach...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this flipped perspective is going off of the anon message that was talking about the sexual tension between Fletcher and Tyr. Here is the same scene from Tyr’s perspective. You’ll notice…a lot of differences.
> 
> And as the usual content warning, Fletcher is still naked most of the scene.

The moment Merrick disappeared, there was nothing between Tyr and Fletcher other than a stretch of white sand, and an expression on the demon’s face that betrayed every mixed emotion he was feeling. Tyr watched as he shifted awkwardly, covering himself some but refusing to let go of his gun. As if that would do much if Tyr really wanted to hurt him.

“So,” the angel began, not wanting to leave the silence between them, “what’s your name?”

“I really don’t want to talk to you.” Fletcher chewed on his lower lip a moment. It reminded Tyr of one of his younger brothers. “You know Merrick will never forgive you if you kill me.”

“Oh, Thor’s hammer—” he groaned. “I’m not—I’m not gonna kill you. Though if you try to shoot me again, I may have to maim you a little.” Tyr grinned playfully, but it didn’t change the sour look on the demon’s face. Did the kid not know how to take a joke? It wasn’t like he was even showing off his weapons any longer. And surely he wasn’t as frightening as Eztli?

“Where are my clothes?” Fletcher asked, abruptly changing the subject.

Tyr shrugged, folding his wings and well aware of the pile of clothing behind him. “I don’t know. Why were you skinny dipping with Merrick?” Maybe Fletcher reminded him too much of his younger brother, but he couldn’t help himself. He cared about Merrick, and wanted to make sure that this demon was as harmless as he looked.

He really seemed to be.

“It was his idea,” Fletcher answered meekly. Tyr smiled. Of course it was. “I don’t even know how to swim.”

Oh, and now the demon was squirming. Trust Merrick to find the demon that couldn’t hold his own against the crab crawling near his thigh, much less the Garrison. Fletcher set down his gun at last, but didn’t relax. “Why…did you promise Merrick you wouldn’t hurt me by Odin? Aren’t you an angel of Heaven?”

“What makes you think that Heaven is a Christian idea?” At least the kid listened when he was terrified. That was good.

“This popular book called the Bible.”

He did have a sense of humor! Tyr shook his head. “Modeled after what humans could see. According to my father, anyway. Look, I don’t really get the ins and outs of what Heaven is and what angels are, but I can tell you one thing—I have never seen a God up there. So as far as I’m concerned, I’m still waiting for Valhalla.”

“You’re a weird fucking angel,” Fletcher scoffed. Tyr tried not to laugh. “Listen, I’m just gonna—ah—leave. I’ll wait for Merrick. He knows where to find me.”

“If you think I’m going to let you smoke back to Hell until I have word from my boss, then you’re mistaken.” Harmless or not, Tyr did have a job to do, and he could see in the other’s dark eyes that he was ready to take flight. So, not waiting for him to make the first move, he darted across the sand and caught him by the wrist before he could smoke away. Fletcher, face to face with the angel, lost all color in his face and Tyr was half-worried he would have a heart attack. Time to lighten the mood.

The angel smiled, and from behind his back produced Fletcher’s pants. “You were gonna leave without these?”

“What—”

Tyr released his wrist and stepped back, allowing Fletcher to hastily tug his clothes back on, red in the face and still sputtering a touch. The angel sat back down on the beach, watching the water instead of the demon. He leaned back on his hands, stretching out his long legs contentedly. If only the Garrison had more down time, he would gladly to come back to a place like this. “You know, the beaches where I grew up were never this nice. I could get used to this. What do you think, demon?”

“I think,” he said quietly, “I’d rather not talk until Merrick comes back.”

Tyr shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He was quiet for a few moments, watching the water break across the shore. Well, if he was going to be stuck here just waiting, not talking, might as well make himself more comfortable. He disappeared for a moment, trusting that he would be faster than Fletcher’s reflexes. When he appeared back on the sands with two pint glasses in hand, he could swear the demons jaw dropped.

“We don’t have to talk,” the angel assured, handing him a glass before he sat back down to watch the water. From the corner of his eye, he could see Fletcher staring at him, and he would have paid Loki a fee to hear what was going on in his head, but he didn’t pry.

Fletcher took a drink. By his face, he was surprised that it wasn’t poison. “Have you ever known a demon to get to Heaven?”

Tyr smiled, but didn’t take his eyes off the sea. “Not specifically. But I know a lot of angels that don’t deserve to be there, so anything is possible.”

The demon finally relaxed, and his thoughts seemed to turn inwards. Fine by Tyr—the viking was content to drink his beer, and listen to the crash and pull of the glittering sea. One day, he’d have to ask his father to go sailing again. He could just see a dragon-headed ship cutting through the water, riding the waves turned gold from a sunset, painting the faces of a dozen warriors as if they had been sent by the very Gods themselves.

One day.


	11. The Warm Light of Heaven

For once, the warm light of Heaven was not inviting to Merrick, but instead filled him with a sense of dread that lingered like a wolf in the pit of his stomach. He wasn’t even sure why he was so worried—Chael had proved again and again to be a reasonable soul, and he trusted Tyr not to eviscerate Fletcher while he was gone. But that nagging doubt remained chewing on his gut, gnawing away like a snarling hound of Hell with eyes like judgment and teeth like righteous fury.

What if Chael didn’t understand?

“You okay, Merrick?” Eztli greeted. She stepped out of one of the training circles, covered in dust and holding a wooden staff lightly in one hand. “You look pale.”

“I’m looking for Chael. Have you seen him?”

“Which is it this time?” she asked with a smile, “Teremun or demons bothering you?”

“I just have something to ask him.”

Her wings fluttered, then folded slowly, unconvinced. “He told me he was going recruiting. Which could either mean he’s talking to Teremun about new guardian projects, or he’s talking to some other angels to see if they want to get trained. I’m sure he’ll be back soon if you want to wait here for him.” She offered him the staff. “You could train with me for awhile?”

He shook his head. “I’ll just wait and patch up whoever you bruise later.”

“A medic in three lives, Merrick?” she teased, balancing the staff across the back of her hand. “You know, if you ever grow weary of shepherding souls to heaven, we could use you in the Garrison to keep us patched up. Chael keeps talking about adding a medic to the crew, but I don’t think he’s found one brave enough to go charging into battle with us.”

“And you think I’m brave enough?” he asked with a smile. “I’m not brave enough to step in the ring with you.”

“There are many different kinds of bravery. They may think me brave to go charging into battle to spill blood, but I don’t think it’s any less courageous to run into battle to stem it. You stand just as much of a chance of getting killed or injured—more so. A blade defends much better than a medical kit. I don’t know that I could do it. Then again,” her smile was that of a jaguar, and a mother, “I have never lived my life without a blade in hand. I’m not sure I would know how to do it.”

Merrick perched on the rail of the training ring, leaning on his hands and watching her with a frown. “You never talk much about your past life.”

She shrugged. “It’s not usually a topic of conversation. Most of the other angels are uncomfortable talking to the Garrison about where we came from.” She grinned viciously. “Apparently we have something of a reputation. I’ve heard plenty of whispers that we don’t deserve to be in Heaven, but odd how those whispers die when we walk past. And they are eager enough to send us into battle to protect them.”

“How can they think you don’t deserve to get into Heaven? It’s not like there are any free passes. I mean, that’s why there are guardians, right? To help push people in the right direction—but it’s still up to them to make the right choices. The morally corrupt, they won’t make it up here. Not on the first try.”

Eztli sat cross-legged in the dirt, resting the staff across her knees and looking up to him. “I wish things were that simple, Merrick. But Heaven is just as political as Earth. Anyone could make an argument that I did not deserve to get up here in my first life, for the lives I took, for living with a man who was not only not my husband, but someone else’s husband. I asked Chael about it at one point, and he told me—”

“Entrance into Heaven is not about the deeds that others would judge to be morally corrupt,” Chael finished with a smile, sitting on the fence beside Merrick. “Would you say that piracy is morally adverse?”

“Stealing from others? Yeah,” Merrick answered with a frown.

“What if you were stealing back what was taken from you? What if what you were stealing was human cargo, which you were then freeing? It’s still theft, but is it morally wrong then?” He nudged Merrick with his wing, his smile easy. “You see where there is a lot of gray area in the interpretations of Heaven. Eztli is a good person. She is aggressive, proud, intimidating, and fierce, but she is a good person. The decisions she made in life—and the afterlife—are often at the detriment of her own well-being in order to protect those weaker than herself. Sometimes even people she does not particularly like. And not just because I ask it of her, but because she believes it is right.”

“Are you referring to when I saved Teremun?”

Chael smiled. “What prompted this conversation?” he asked, evading her question.

Merrick shook his head. “I was just waiting for you to get back. I wanted to talk to you.”

“I got caught conversing to a very eager young angel who has been listening to too many Garrison stories, I think. I might give you a new sparring partner to see how she does, Eztli,” he added, to which she grinned. “But I’m free now. What did you want to talk about?”

Merrick’s wings fluttered nervously. “In private?”

“Of course.” Chael didn’t miss a beat, though his gaze lingered on the guardian a touch longer than necessary, as if trying to read his intentions. Merrick felt like a butterfly stuck to a pin. “Eztli, if Dina comes around, put her through her paces, huh? If she lasts a few sparring sessions with you, then I’ll see about grooming her to become a permanent part of the Garrison.” He put a hand on Merrick’s shoulder to guide the younger angel along with him. “I remember when I had to fight tooth and claw to get any warriors to join me. Now all of a sudden I have volunteers.”

“Why didn’t people want to join you before?”

Chael shrugged his white wings. “No one wanted to be associated with the Island of Misfit Toys.”

“The what?”

He laughed. “When I joined the Garrison, we were nothing but cannon fodder for Heaven’s armies. A place where the angels who did not really belong went to prove their worth. A lot of us died. Eventually, my commander died in battle, and I stepped up to replace him. I’ve been able to change things over the years, and we’ve gone from the expendable ones to Heaven’s elite fighting force.” He paused. “Not everyone is happy with that change, but—” He smiled, and said nothing more on the matter, despite Merrick’s quizzical expression. He turned towards one of the many walled gardens of Heaven, stepping over a trickle of silver water. “What did you want to talk about?”

Merrick sat down beneath the twisting branches of a tree, its leaves pale yellow and each one tipped in violet blossoms, so that if he looked up through the canopy it seemed to be burning a deep fire. Warmth emanated from the trunk. He pressed his wings against it. “Redemption.”

“You finally made it into Heaven, Merrick,” Chael teased. “You’re set.”

Chael’s smile was the lighthouse in the storm, and finally the knot in his stomach eased. He sagged back against the tree. “Has there ever been a demon that’s made it to Heaven?”

“Yes.” He rested his hands on his knees, watching Merrick closely. “Though not easily, and not without good reason.” He opened his mouth to say more, then seemed to decide against it. “Is this about the demon that Eztli chased away from you?”

He felt such heat rise in his cheeks, and he wished he could blame it on the comforting warmth of the tree at his back. “His name is Fletcher.”

Merrick didn’t know what to expect from Chael, even if he had thought about this encounter over and over again. Maybe the Viking would explode in anger, demand to know where this demon was hiding so he could put him down for good. Maybe he would be empathetic, and immediately grant Fletcher the wings Merrick knew he deserved. Maybe he would outline a detailed plan that would involve the whole Garrison, if not the whole of Heaven, to break Fletcher free from the chains of Hell. Maybe he would scoff and call Merrick a child. A thousand different scenarios ran through his head, but instead of any of those, Chael just watched him with a little frown between his eyes, and waited for him to go on.

“He's—” Merrick groped for the words, using his hands for emphasis, as if they could do the pleading for him. “He’s a good person, Chael. He’s kind, and gentle, and confused. I don’t think he deserves to be in Hell. Maybe he’s not good enough for Heaven yet, but he isn’t evil, or conniving, or—he at least deserves the second chance that I got. I believe in him. I care about him. I lo—” He snapped his mouth shut, and felt his face flush a deeper red.

“Merrick,” Chael sighed, and rubbed at his face a moment. “You know I spend a lot of time in the Library, reading about who the angels in Heaven used to be when they were mortals. I do this to better understand them, especially those in my Garrison, or those otherwise in my radar.”

“Are you saying I’m in your radar?” he asked meekly.

“You are a good medic, Merrick, but maybe not the best guardian.” He held up his hand to stop any protests. “The reason it took you two lifetimes to get to Heaven is not because of your heart. You are selfless, you are brave, and you earnestly want to do what is best for everyone. But you want to help and love everyone so badly, you blind yourself to who they might really be.”

“Chael—”

“Let me finish,” he soothed. “If it had been my decision, I would have given you one more life to lead, one not in a time of war. You need to learn what it’s like to be in love and have a relationship, so you stop handing your heart out to every pitiable case with pretty eyes. Let me finish,” he added again when Merrick’s mouth opened. “You have a bad habit of falling for the enemy. And I know that this is because you see the good in people, past who they are fighting for. But you’re exposing yourself to more danger than I think you realize. Maybe this Fletcher is really worth redemption. It’s very likely that he doesn’t belong in Hell, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he belongs in Heaven.”

“I know what love is, Chael,” Merrick snapped at last.

“You know what it’s like to be enamored,” he corrected. “You have no idea how to be in a relationship, to compromise, to love through whatever happens. That’s an important thing to learn. I don’t doubt that you’re capable of it, but I’d hate to think that this demon is just taking advantage of your good nature because you don’t know any better.”

“And you’re such a good judge of it?” Merrick was sure his heart was going to beat out of his chest, or fire was going to shoot from his ears, or the beast in his stomach would finally tear its way free. He made to rise, but Chael put a hand on his arm, easing him back down.

“I am not trying to make you angry,” he coaxed. “I just want you to think about this a bit more. I will help you, and I will help you keep your secret until we’re both sure of Fletcher’s intentions.”

Merrick sank back down, his wings trembling. He felt sick, but the fire had died and the beast settled to a low growl. His mind wouldn’t stop churning, from the light of Heaven to the demon he had left on the beach, to love and affection, to everything he knew about Chael and the rest of the Garrison, clinging to the knowledge like a weapon. There had to be a way to convince Chael that he was right. “Tyr is your son, right?” he asked after a long silence.

“Yes. Why?”

“Where is your wife? Why isn’t she here with you?”

The way Chael’s face twisted, Merrick immediately regretted the question, but the older angel answered it anyway. “Souls are complicated, Merrick,” he whispered. “And you don’t know everything yet about Heaven and Hell, and which souls are left to reincarnate again on Earth. Now is not the time to discuss it.”

“But I need to understand it, if I’m going to help Fletcher.”

Chael shook his head. “Let’s first see if this demon is who you think he is. And if he really wants to be saved.”

“Of course he wants to be saved!”

Chael stood at last, folding his wings. “Just promise me you won’t rush into anything, Merrick. And keep me informed as to what’s going on, okay? I’m going to go talk to the rest of the Garrison to make sure they don’t swoop down and stab him while you’re talking with him—or whatever else it is you’re doing.”

Merrick snapped his mouth shut quickly, and hugged his knees to his chest. “Tyr is with him right now,” he muttered.

“I’ll check in. Stay here and think about it for a little while, huh? Whenever you’re ready to go back to Earth, go back down. We’ll keep an eye on him until then.”

He nodded numbly, watching Chael leave with that twisting feeling in his stomach remaining. What if Chael was right, and he really was just an assignment?

He couldn’t believe that, not after seeing Fletcher like this. Really seeing him, uncertain and afraid. And with all the seals he had placed in the bunker, how could he be checking in with demons anyway? Fletcher wanted to be saved. He wanted to get to Heaven, to get away from the life he was living now.

And Merrick wanted him to be here. Maybe Chael was right about never learning about love and a relationship, but wasn’t Fletcher this chance to have it at last? Who else up here would give that to him? He hugged his knees tighter against his chest, swallowing the doubt.

Why wouldn’t Chael tell him everything about souls, though? What hadn’t Teremun taught him when he first started getting his assignments?

“Are you alright, Guardian?”

The voice was enough to give Merrick chills, and he jerked so abruptly he smacked his wings against the trunk of the tree, showering himself with violet petals. The voice was that of Heaven itself, powerful and permeating, a heavy blanket that could comfort or suffocate, and Merrick found himself choking on his own breath as he looked upon Michael for the first time.

Well, it wasn’t really the first time he had seen the archangel. He had heard Michael speak when addressing a crowd of angels, and seen him at a distance, on a pillar and an all-consuming presence. But this close, within arms’ reach, Merrick was at a loss for words.

Michael’s wings were so large they brushed the ground when he walked, supported by broad shoulders and magic that seemed to pulse just under his skin, almost glowing through the curve of each muscle. His dark hair framed his face like the shadows from moonlight, and in his eyes was the stars, the sun, the light of Heaven. The light that was right now focused on him in soft concern.

“I’m alright,” Merrick croaked at last, pressing his back against the tree.

Michael crouched in front of him, resting his hand on the angel’s knee. “Clearly you aren’t. What has upset you?”

The touch was electric, and he felt the knot in his stomach unbind at last. He took in a deep breath, looking down at the archangel’s fingers, then finally back up to his face. He uncurled a touch, and wondered when the words left his mouth. “I’m tired of being treated like a child.”

Michael chuckled, and sat down across from him, hardly seeming as if he were touching the ground. “You are but a child still compared to many here. Is there something you want to talk about?” His hand found Merrick’s, and the angel felt like stars slid into his veins.

Merrick shook his head quickly. “I should get back to my work. I’ve left Abby alone for too long.” And Fletcher, for that matter. He couldn’t let Michael of all people find out that he was flirting with a demon. What would the archangel think? What would he do?

Michael’s smile sent his feathers tingling. “You’re a good guardian, Merrick. Your job is the most important of Heaven. Don’t let anyone make you feel inferior. You are the shepherd of souls, and it is souls that make Heaven strong. Remember that.”

He nodded quickly, and stood so abruptly he nearly hit his head on a low branch. It wasn’t until he retreated back to the beach, collected Fletcher, and curled up with him in the bunker that Merrick wondered when Michael had learned his name.


	12. Again and Again

“Tyr didn't bother you at all, did he?”

Fletcher leaned his temple against Merrick's shoulder, wondering how strong that pint had been that he was already nursing a headache. Then again, maybe it was the fact that he and Tyr had gone through six of them in Merrick's absence, and then the angel had taught him some Viking ballad in a language he didn't understand, but he sang it anyway, and felt as if he was on a heaving ship, salt and blood in the air. At least he'd had his pants on by then.

“No, he didn't really bother me,” he assured after a moment, closing his eyes. “He's a weird angel though.”

Fletcher felt Merrick smile against his hair, but it felt forced, or at least half-assed. “You seem to say that about all of us.”

“Well, you're not what I expected. I grew up hearing stories from the Bible about angels, and then down in Hell they have their own stories about angels, and none of them seem to fit any of you. Well, all three of you that I've met.”

Merrick's lips pressed into a thin line. “Chael spoke with you, then?”

“Yeah.” Buzzing on ale and leaning on Tyr's shoulder as the angel told some story of the old Gods, Fletcher had thought when Chael first appeared he was one of the deities coming to take him to Valhalla. Large white wings, blond hair braided down the back of his neck, eyes as intense as the heavens, and a frown that reminded him of his grandfather. His mind screamed for him to run, but Tyr had a hand on his shoulder, and he had readied himself for a swift and vicious death.

Instead, they had talked.

“What did he say?” Merrick asked, when Fletcher said nothing more about it.

He shrugged, staring at the floor instead of the angel, his fingers making absent circles on Merrick's thigh. “That I would not be the first demon to make it to Heaven, but it is not an easy road, and I have to want it. He talked about going through redemption. I asked him what he meant by it, and he said living another life to prove that my soul belongs above. But I'm already dead, Merrick, and already a demon—how can I go back and live another life?”

“I've heard of it being done,” Merrick admitted with a frown. His lips brushed the top of the demon's head. “I mean, that was for someone who was still human, but—yeah. The angels use magic to open an alternate timeline, and you live your life there, or at least a major event in your life, and you're judged based on the decisions you make there. It's like—it's like proving that raised under different circumstances, you would make the right decisions. You know what I mean? If you hadn't been raised by your parents, or if you hadn't joined a gang, you would have made it to Heaven on your own. This would be a chance to prove that.”

Fletcher felt his stomach drop, and he wasn't entirely sure why. “What happens if you fail?”

“I don't know. You'd have to ask Chael. I imagine you'd go back to the way things are. But you wouldn't fail, Fletcher.”

“I'm not sure I know how to do anything _but_ fail,” he whispered, wondering when the words had left his mouth. Maybe his head was too full and too aching to keep anything within it.

Merrick tucked fingers under his chin, tilting his head up with a frown. “Don't talk like that. I believe in you.”

“Why? You don't know me, Merrick.” Didn't know how he was still playing both sides, still trying to do his job as a demon, at least enough to keep Razi off of his back. Didn't know about how often he thumbed the trigger of his gun, thought about going back to Hell just because it would be  _easier_ . Didn't know how he would lay here at night and dream of the angel, dream of the ocean, dream of freedom, and when he woke be so afraid of all of it. He didn't want Merrick to know any of it. 

“I know you,” Merrick insisted, that frown darkening his eyes, a troubled sea pushed by the demon's turbulent tides. “I know you in all the ways that matter. Everything else we can learn together, can't we?”

Fletcher had one inside of his jacket, his fingers curled around the grip of his gun. He could smoke away now, find some far corner of the world to hide from the angels and the demons, be away from all of the expectations and all of the frowns, everything that made him feel as if he were drowning. He watched the angel's wings puff and flick, watched the way his lips pulled down, felt the way his fingers seemed to waver against his skin. Merrick looked ready to run, too. Maybe it was better to just pull the trigger now. 

“Are you sure you want to?”

Merrick pulled Fletcher up, holding his face in both hands. “There are so many things I'm not sure of now, Fletcher,” he whispered, his voice breaking. His wings shook, and Fletcher felt guilt gnawing in the pit of his stomach. “But I am sure that I want to be with you. As long as you want to be with me, too.”

Fletcher kissed him, wishing he could kiss away that worry, the anxious flick of his wings, the storm that seemed to churn terrible waves over and over in his angel's eyes. His angel. He pulled back enough for breath, but while he searched for words, Merrick kissed him again. It was almost desperate, a thousand unasked questions there, a hundred worries unsaid, all the quivering in each feather. Fletcher for once had the awareness that maybe all of this wasn't just about him, that maybe something else had happened in Heaven, but Merrick was kissing him again, crushing their lips together. The angel held onto his coat like a life jacket, barely pausing for breath, his tongue opening Fletcher's mouth, his teeth scraping the demon's lower lip, desperate and searching.

Fletcher had to answer. He wrapped his arms around Merrick's shoulders, climbing fully into his lap and trying to push aside the throbbing between his temples. Merrick's lips were like painkillers, filling him with warmth and softness and promise. “Stay with me,” he whispered against his mouth.

“I shouldn't stay too long.”

He crushed his mouth in another kiss, sliding his fingers into Merrick's feathers. “Stay with me, Merrick. You need it. Let me help you.”

“And you think you would fail redemption?” Merrick whispered, smiling against his lips. “Demons don't want to help.”

“I want you.” The words tumbled against Merrick's lips, so close he worried the angel would breathe them in before he could hear them. “That's all, Merrick. I want you, I want you to be happy, I want you to feel safe. I'll do what I need to for that.” Fletcher felt a nagging voice at the back of his head, doubting his own words. He wanted the angel with him because of how Merrick made him feel, and selfishness like that would not earn him feathers. But what was even the selfless option here? If what was good for him was good for Merrick too, then didn't it still count? “Please, stay with me.”

Merrick looked at him with the ripples of emotion still ringing around his eyes, too faint to read, but too chaotic to see the bottom. But the angel smiled, and kissed him again.

And again.

And again.

He had no idea how much time passed, but when they finally stopped and his mind drifted in a warm haze, he was aware that they were on the floor, both of them only covered by Merrick's massive wings. He lay in the crook of the angel's shoulder, half-sprawled across his chest, their legs intertwined and Merrick with one strong arm hooked between his wings to hold him in place. His hand drifted over Merrick's collarbone, tracing the lines and watching the way the light filtered through his feathers, leaving patterns on his skin as if from a dappled canopy. Merrick was asleep, or close to it, his chest rising and falling in smooth motions.

He wanted to stay like this forever.

Swimming at the beach, he had still been so nervous. Nervous of being caught, of making a fool of himself, of drowning. Even if he wanted to be around him, in the sun and on the sand, that nagging anxiety wouldn't leave. Every time he followed his angel, it felt as if he were taking a hand that would lead him to the precipice. But like this, listening to Merrick's breath, the steady beat of his heart, wrapped in the warm comfort of his wings and that one possessive arm, it felt like home. When was the last time he had laid anywhere without fear? When was the last time he closed his eyes without gripping a weapon and hoping nothing came from the darkness to swallow him?

When was the last time he wanted to be anywhere that was supposed to be home?

Right when Fletcher was on the cusp of dreams, Merrick sat up abruptly, swearing and dislodging his lover onto the floor.

“Jesus Christ!” The demon rubbed at his nose where it had hit the concrete floor. “What's wrong with you?”

“I have to go. Something's happening with Abby, and I'm not—fuck!—where are my pants?” Merrick scrambled about the bunker, shedding feathers as he went and letting out a most unholy stream of expletives.

Fletcher pulled Merrick's pants out from underneath him, having been laying on them for the better part of an hour. “These pants? Do you want me to go with you?”

The whirlwind paused only long enough for Merrick to take his clothes, and give Fletcher a quick kiss. “No. There's another demon there. Stay here, and stay safe. I'll come for you later.”

“Another demon?” But the angel had already disappeared, leaving Fletcher in a mess of discarded clothing and stress-shed feathers. “What demon?” he whispered to himself, feeling the cold claw of fear replacing that feeling of home in his chest.

Across the room, a puff of smoke announced Razi's arrival, the demon holding two cigars and a grin that rivaled a Cheshire cat's. “I thought you'd appreciate cigars over champagne, fledgling. Mission accomplished for you. Feels good, huh?”

Fletcher hurried to pull his clothes back on. “What do you mean?”

“I asked you to distract him so we could get a leg up, and you did it with gusto. And flair,” he added, lighting one of the cigars. “I'm sorry I missed all the action. It's been awhile since I've been able to use my voyeuristic streak. Oh, don't frown like that.” He patted Fletcher's back with more force than necessary, and tucked the second cigar in between his lips when he opened his mouth to protest. “This means you can move on to bigger and better things. And keep Adem's claws out of your wings, which I think is an even bigger perk. I'll be back tomorrow, maybe the day after, with your next assignment. Guess that means I'll have to think of a new nickname for you, huh?”

He stepped back, taking a long drag on the cigar. “Oh, one more thing,” he added, blowing out a cloud of fragrant smoke. “Might be in your best interest to stop fucking the angel now. You wouldn't want to draw unwanted attention.”

When he left, Fletcher took the cigar out and held it in his palm. He lit it on fire, burning it to quick, pungent ashes from tip to tip, wishing he felt as much anger as the fire showed, wishing he felt something more than an anxious knot squeezing his chest. He should stay in the bunker and wait, drift on memories of pleasant nights and the scent of Merrick's neck.

Instead, he went to find his angel.

 


	13. Brimstone and Stardust

“That went well.”

Michael couldn't help the intense feeling of disdain when he slid awkwardly into the diner's booth, tucking his oversized wings as closely as he could to his body. He couldn't quite pick out what made him feel more revolted—the diner that sported retro neon signs and bright red uniforms, the uncomfortable tightness of the booth with its shiny plastic seats puckering against his thighs, or the self-satisfied smirk of the demon who sat across from him. Of course Razi would have picked a place so bright and overdone, and probably insisted on a booth knowing that the archangel would hate it.

Demons were such a fucking infestation.

“Fletcher has served his purpose,” Michael snapped impatiently. “He wasn't supposed to succeed. You said you were picking a weak demon specifically to help Merrick look good.”

Razi wrinkled his nose, and decided to ignore Michael a moment longer in favor of flashing the waitress a toothy smile. “Hello, beautiful. Can I get a burger, cooked rare, fries, and one of those Samoas milkshakes?”

“Of course, sir. Thank you for supporting our local Girl Scout troop. And for you?”

Michael pulled a face when the waitress turned brightly to him, too busy glaring at Razi. “I'm not hungry.”

“He'll take a cup of hot water,” Razi suggested, his smile sweet. “He'll need it for the enema to get the stick out of his ass.”

“Don't push your luck, scum,” Michael growled. “I came here to talk business with you. If you think you wish to sit there and insult me, I would be glad to introduce you to new worlds of pain.”

“You know, I can't decide who is more intense, you or my boss,” the demon remarked, watching the waitress hurry away. When she returned with his milkshake, he offered her another smile. “Thanks, babe.” He let Michael fume on the other side of the booth, taking a flask from his jacket and adding it to the milkshake.

The archangel watched him incredulously. “ _What_ on earth are you drinking?”

“Coconut rum really gives it the proper kick. Do you want to try?”

Michael looked at the tall, slender glass, topped with a heap of whipped cream and crushed cookies, and grimaced. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“You really need to learn to unwind, dude.” Razi stuck his straw into his milkshake with a sense of finality. “There are so many wonders on earth, and you ignore them in favor of preening your high Heaven.” 

The archangel snarled, and the lights above them flickered, causing everyone in the diner to quiet for a few moments, glancing around nervously. Outside, thick clouds rolled in from the south, covering the sun with the promise of driving rain. “I know this is hard for your narrow little brain, but focus. You are not holding up your end of the bargain. This demon was supposed to fail at attacking Merrick, and instead he pulled him away from his job. We agreed that it was supposed to look natural.”

“Well, he naturally got too distracted by Fletcher's hips. Don't worry about it,” he assured, taking a long drink, purposefully sucking at the straw so it made as much noise as possible. He could see Michael's jaw pulse from his gritted teeth. Thunder rumbled. “I'll get the fledgling out of the way. I've already got something in mind. Then your little angel can have his rousing success, and we can finish our deal, yeah?”

“Our deal,” Michael repeated tightly. 

Razi leaned back when the waitress came bearing a plate. “Ah, thank you my love! If the cow is still mooing in this burger, I'll leave an extra tip.”

At his exaggerated wink, she smiled awkwardly. “Are you sure you don't want anything to eat or drink?” she asked to Michael. 

“He decided that he was going to do his enema later,” Razi answered for him. The lights flickered. The demon smiled disarmingly. “But thank you. Maybe hot water in a to-go cup?”

She hurried away to another table. 

“So, about that deal,” Razi went on, before Michael could break any light fixtures. “I want this in writing. Between the two of us, I've got a hell of a lot more to lose.”

“Like your breath,” the archangel warned, but he seemed calmer now that Razi had finally turned back to business. “Typical crossroads demon. Everything is contracts.”

The demon's smile was all sugar and fangs. He bit into his burger, chewing thoughtfully before he answered. “Really, feathers, you need to eat something. The world is your oyster, and you're letting it go unsucked.” He paused, setting down the burger slowly. “Unless, that's what you want Merrick for?”

Rain began to pummel the side of the diner, and the lights all went out. 

“Alright, fair, I overstepped my bounds.”

When the lights flickered back to life, people had their faces pressed against the glass to watch the raging storm. The waitress chewed on the end of her pen. Razi sucked noisily at his milkshake. 

“Lay out what you want, demon. I don't have all day.”

Razi dug into his jacket pocket, unrolling a sheath of paper. “Do you want to read it, or do you want the reader's digest version?” He held it out, but pulled it back a touch when Michael reached for it. “Listen, I don't know how you angels normally work, but for us, a contract is binding. Binding. Do you understand that? No pulling your dick out last minute when you decide you want to change the rules again. I want this signed and sealed to both of our souls.”

“I think my soul has significantly more value than yours,” Michael snarled, snatching the papers from him. 

“I am serious. If you won't bind yourself to this contract, you can forget our agreement.”

The archangel gave him no answer until he had read the contract from front to back. Surprisingly, Razi hadn't tried to slip anything in under the radar. It was exactly as they had agreed—Razi would help him claim not only Abby's soul and any possible advancements she made in any of her lifetimes, but Merrick would be the one to help her get to Heaven unmolested. In return, Michael would help Razi eliminate a few select demons and put him on the throne of Hell. 

“You forgot a few things,” Michael said, setting down the papers at last. New pages appeared underneath the stack, written in gold ink. “Once you are in charge of Hell, the rules of souls change. Heaven gets every soul, unless I deem that they can go to you. You keep control of the demons you already possess, and we'll leave you alone as long as you abide by the new rules.”

“Yeah, I had a question about that,” Razi said, gesturing towards him with a french fry. “I mean, I'm cool with finally getting the throne I deserve, and the whole immortality thing means my peons will be around for awhile, but why do you want all the souls? What are you gonna do with all of them in Heaven? Seems like it'll get crowded pretty quick.”

“I want them because it is my  _right_ to have them,” Michael snarled, the air around him darkening for a moment. Thunder rumbled so deep it shook the building. “And I will not have that questioned by a parasite like you. You don't understand the way things are. I am the last of the original angels of Heaven, and none of the first demons are left alive. You all collect souls because you don't know what else to do. I need them. And it is my right to have them.”

Razi polished off his burger, sucking the juice off of his fingers with an unimpressed air. “Uh huh. You know what? That's cool. You do you, buddy. As long as you agree not to eliminate any more demons, we'll let you have all the souls. As soon as I take the throne of Hell.” He smiled, taking the new papers to look over them. “You know, I've been owed a crown for so long now. What do you think, should I go with the traditional gold and jewels, or maybe make something a little more hellish? A couple of broken skulls or something, maybe a bit of polished brimstone?” When Michael gave him no answer, he glanced at him over the top of the papers. The archangel was looking out the window at the storm, the blue light playing across the sharp angles of his face. His eyes were dark and endless, twinkling with inner stars and a calling void. Razi couldn't help the shiver that rippled down his spine. 

“Maybe not brimstone,” he went on, still watching the archangel. “Maybe stardust.”

“There is plenty of that in Hell,” Michael agreed absently. 

Razi lowered the papers to the table. For once, his voice was soft and low. “Are the stories true, then? You're the last of the First Ones. You're not of Earth.”

Michael smiled, resting his chin on the heel of his hand. The wind howled outside, throwing the rain against the glass. The neon glow of the diner's lights didn't seem to catch his skin. “My soul is made of different stars than yours, demon.”

“But you can bind contracts to it, yeah?” 

The archangel produced a quill, its feather charred at the edges. “The kind that cannot be broken.” He flipped the papers around, then signed his name with a flourish at the bottom. The word glowed blue for a moment, then seemed to settle deep into the page. He offered the quill to Razi. “Don't sign your name as the King of Hell yet. You need to finish your end of the bargain first. Get that weak demon out of the way, and I will see about removing your obstacles as well.”

“Don't worry about the kid,” Razi assured, resting the tip of the quill against the contract for a long moment. He could feel Michael staring at him with the weight of the universe, and with a breath that struggled in his chest, Razi signed the paper at last. “I'll get you the list of demons in my way.”

“I will send the Garrison after them,” Michael assured, taking the papers and rolling them again. “If I happen to lose one or two of them, it's no great loss. Just have your targets outside of the protection of Hell, and I will take care of the rest.”

The waitress came over at Razi's wave. She chewed the end of her pen lightly. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Just the check, doll. My friend here will be paying,” the demon said, gesturing towards Michael with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. 

“I don't carry money,” Michael drawled, his glance daring Razi to push it.

The demon sighed dramatically, pulling a wad of bills from his jacket pocket. “It was worth a shot.” He watched the archangel stand and walk out, the rain breaking as soon as he stepped out into the open air. The clouds rolled back, leaving bright sunlight glistening along the wet pavement. Razi stuck an unlit cigarette between his lips, dropping a few bills onto the table. “Fucking drama queen.” 

 


	14. Take Out the Gunman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some graphic depictions of violence in this chapter, reader beware.

It only took a breath of time to get from the bunker to the laboratory, but in that breath Fletcher felt as if his world tunneled. What if, by the time he got there, some other demon already had his claws in Merrick? What would he do? Stop the other demon somehow? Hold Merrick as the angel bled out next to his oblivious ward? Run from everything and hope no angels or demons came after him?

In the breath of time it took to arrive at the lab, Fletcher had his gun drawn and his heart in his throat. He looked around the room wildly, seeing first Abby and her professor, then some rail-thin man leaning over their papers, his long dark fingers seeming to map the pages with a touch like magic. What he didn't see was blood, and when the breath finally returned to his lungs, he saw Merrick. The angel startled, crossing the room quickly to catch Fletcher's arms.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was worried about you,” he gasped, lowering the gun at last. “I thought there might be—”

“You can't stay here, Fletcher,” Merrick insisted, squeezing his arms. His wings were spread, blocking the demon from the view of someone else in the room. “There was another demon here, but Eztli took care of it. Go back to the bunker.”

Jesus Christ. Fletcher leaned around Merrick just enough to catch a glimpse of spotted wings, and he decided it was not worth being in the same room as the Reaper just to feel his angel's hands a moment longer. He leaned up, kissed him hard and fast, and disappeared.

He couldn't get his pulse to settle.

Returning to the bunker didn't help, especially not when he found a note pinned to the couch. _Next assignment: 295 Wedgeworth Ave. Take out the man who lives there. I don't care if you use your claws or your gun, but try not to wake the neighbors, huh? And stop coming back here. It's depressing and smells like mold and disappointing sex._

Fletcher crumpled the paper. Fucking Razi. He sat down on the couch, dropping his head into his hands. What choice did he have? He couldn't pretend to be on the run from the demons with Merrick any longer and still stay here. He couldn't leave Merrick and still get into Heaven. But he couldn't go back to Hell as their minion, and lose all chance at redemption. If he could get the angel to meet him somewhere other than the bunker, maybe they could find a new place to stay. Maybe he could tell him the truth of everything, and finally be shielded from Razi and Adem and everything else.

But Merrick wasn't going to leave Abby alone for awhile, especially after what had happened. Whatever had just happened. He rubbed at his face, and smoothed the paper open over his knee. Take out the man who lived at that address, huh? It would buy him time, and maybe some freedom from Razi's yoke. Besides, he could go pull a trigger. Maybe it would make him feel better.

Wedgeworth Avenue gave him little to go off of, and arriving at the address showed off little more than a section of old brick row homes, but the number matched what was scrawled on his paper. He lit a cigarette, lingering outside the door and looking up at the building. He folded his wings and tucked his hands into his pockets, thumbing the grip of his gun. If he concentrated hard enough, he could see the light of a soul on the second story, and no one else in the building. Should be easy enough. Shoot one little mortal, report back in, and then figure the rest of it out from there.

In a puff of smoke, he was upstairs, standing behind the stranger. He was hunched over the end of his bed, packing a bag and muttering beneath his breath in German. Fletcher couldn't pick out the words, but they were drowned out by the report of the gun as the demon fired at his back. The dark-haired man jerked, tipping forward onto his bed, smearing blood all over the quilt. He tumbled off the end and onto the floor, but when he rolled onto his back, Fletcher found himself looking into black eyes that, while pained, were definitely not the dying embers he expected.

If he were human, he should have been dead.

Fletcher swore under his breath, and before he could run, a knife sank into his shoulder, slamming him against the wall and pinning him there. It buried up to the hilt against his skin, an inch of blade scoring the drywall. Bleeding and confused, he yanked at the hilt, trying to pull it free, but it seared his hands and left him gasping for breath. What the fuck?

“Do you know who you shot, demon?” he snarled, finally picking himself up off the floor, another knife held ready in his right hand. The black of his eyes seemed to spread from corner to corner, and Fletcher could see a hint of fangs in his sneer. But he was definitely not a demon—Fletcher could see that much in his soul. What _was_ he? Was this like what Merrick had described at the lab? Not human, but not—not anything they knew about?

Fletcher tugged at the knife again. It didn't budge. “No.”

“Good.” He stumbled to close the space between them, his free hand cradling the bleeding wound, the hole in his stomach much more ragged than the one on his back. “You're going to get to know me intimately soon.”

 

 ----

 

Fletcher learned a lot over the next few hours.

He learned the man's name was Emeric Jaegar, and he was a hunter. Fletcher had no idea what a hunter was, but it became quickly apparent that it was someone equipped to handle demons. Emeric left Fletcher pinned to the wall long enough to strap a bandage around his middle and stem the bleeding, put a new shirt on, and pick up a bag full of tools. All the while the demon tugged at the knife, thrashing against the wall for freedom, for enough of an inch to smoke away. But the knife refused to move, sending burning pain shooting through his veins with every writhe. And with each spike of pain, he couldn't help but wonder why Razi didn't _warn_ him.

Emeric took less than twenty minutes to pull Fletcher from the wall, shove him down two sets of stairs, and drop him inside of a warded circle on the basement floor. Despite the blood pooling underneath him from his slowly mending wound, the hunter strapped Fletcher to a chair, binding his wings so tightly it was hard to breathe. His wrists were held level with his waist, a rope pulled over them and around the back of the chair, woven into the ties for his wings.

“Are you going to kill me?” Fletcher asked when he could find enough breath, watching Emeric pace just outside of the circle, inspecting his gun.

“Why does a demon have a pistol?”

“To shoot you with.”

Emeric smirked. “It's a beautiful weapon, I'll have to admit. But you must be pretty young to not know how much more effective your claws can be, especially against someone like me.”

“Someone like you,” Fletcher repeated. He strained against the ropes, and couldn't gain an inch. The warding beneath his feet made his skin tingle, the small hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. “You're not human.”

“You're a little slow, aren't you?” He checked the bullets in the gun, then turned the muzzle around and fired into Fletcher's leg.

The pain that blossomed, that made the chained-down chair shake, the pain was more a memory than the quivering sensation that trembled up his leg. The last time he had been shot, he was crouched beside his friends, listening to the rattle of gunfire from the police. The overturned table that served as their defense shook from the impacts, splinters flying all around their heads. Someone pressed a machine gun into his hands. Hands that he had known for years, hands that had traveled the city with him, hands that pressed against his with the unafraid finality of knowing they were going to die. But not without a fight. Fletcher felt light and free, and he stood up against the hail of bullets, screaming into the cacophony of noise and squeezing the trigger. He remembered being hit, over and over, remembered blossoms of pain muted against the adrenaline and gunsmoke, remembered hitting the ground, and nothing else.

“What's your name, demon?” Emeric asked, toeing the edge of the circle and dropping the gun onto the floor.

“Fuck you.”

“That's an odd name,” the hunter drawled. Blood no longer dripped from his shirt. He was standing straighter, and toying with a knife whose handle was carved into a cross. It left red marks on his palm, but he held it like an old lover. “Doesn't really matter to me, though. I want other information out of you.”

Fletcher felt as if he were pressed against a brick wall, an arm across his throat, an angry mobster demanding why the skinny kid was sneaking around, what he had seen and who he knew. He spat on the ground, hitting the pool of blood slowly spreading out from his ankle. “I don't know anything.”

“Who sent you to my address, then?” Emeric stepped over the line at last, and finally Fletcher could see the knife more clearly. The handle looked like it was made out of bone, Christ on the cross lovingly carved into it.

There was no reason not to give up Razi. The asshole deserved it. Had he known when he sent him here? Was this another one of his fucked-up tests? Fletcher tilted up his chin to look Emeric in the eye. “My boss.”

“Cute. Does your boss have a name?” Emeric straddled Fletcher's lap, settling there and cupping his face in one hand, the other still holding the knife. The pressure caused the bullet wound to gush with renewed vigor. His thigh trembled.

“Asshole, usually.”

Emeric tipped the edge of the knife against his cheek. The blade, even without breaking skin, burned like nothing he had ever felt, and he thrashed against the bonds again. “Shh,” the hunter soothed, his knees pressed against Fletcher's hips and his fingers curling into his hair against his scalp. “This works better if you tell me what I want to know. Who is your boss? Who sent you here?”

“Fuck you!”

He shrugged. “Have it your way.”

Fletcher learned a lot over the next few hours. He learned that the knife Emeric used was blessed, which was why every time it pressed against his skin, every time it drew blood, every time it twisted into his flesh, it sent pain that did not cease lancing through his body. He learned that the basement must have been soundproof, because there was no indication that anyone aside from Emeric could hear him scream and curse. He learned that something from his previous life must have lingered—either that, or he survived on spite alone. He didn't know anything useful to tell the hunter, so he told him nothing at all.

Fletcher was a lot of things, but a rat was not one of them.

It seemed so stupid not to even give up Razi's name. He had no loyalty to him. He hated him. But if this was a test, he was going to prove himself. And even if it wasn't—he hated Emeric for what he stood for, for how he acted, more than he hated Razi for what he was. Emeric was law. Emeric was authority. Emeric thought himself a righteous hand of God.

Emeric could go suck a dick.

Fletcher quivered in the ropes, slumped forward as much as the ties would allow. A weakness had settled over him like he hadn't felt since gaining his wings, and through his half-open eyes he watched the growing pool of blood beneath the chair. How much blood did a demonic body hold? And how much could it lose? What happened to a demon once it died? He had meant to ask Merrick if he knew. A human died and went to Heaven or Hell. What was below Hell? Would he cease to exist?

“You've actually impressed me, demon,” Emeric said, pacing around the edge of the circle. “That's not an easy thing to do any longer. But you look pretty young, so you probably don't know much yet. Do you know what happens with these?” He stepped forward, cutting a few of the ties so he could free one of Fletcher's wings, forcing it to extend. “These are concentrated power, really. Take away a demon's wings, and he'll live. But everything is harder. Everything hurts. Some of them break without them, unable to handle the constant pain—they go mad, or they kill themselves.” He flipped his blade around, and buried it into Fletcher's back against the base of his wing.

The scream that ripped his chest was like an echo of every painful memory of a thousand lifetimes. He saw himself crouched under his father's belt. He saw himself strapped to a bed, flushed with fever and staring up at a priest. He saw himself pinned by the neck in an alley. He saw himself held down on a dirty bed, groping for a knife just an inch out of reach. He saw himself standing against a hail of machine gun fire. He saw himself in Hell, over and over. Over. And over. And over. The pain blossomed through his chest, so blinding he hardly realized that Emeric was still slowly extending his wing to its full length.

“S-stop!” The word spilled from his lips along with a mouthful of blood. He could taste nothing but copper and brimstone, ash and smoke.

“Are you going to have any voice left to talk, demon?” Though Fletcher couldn't see him, he could feel Emeric's smile along with the grip of his too-strong hands.

“What are you?” He heard his own voice quiver, something close to a sob.

“Cursed. But not as much as you.”

The snap of bone preceded another echoing scream from the demon. He tried to pull his wing back in and away from the hunter's hands, but the knife wedged into his joint allowed nothing more than a pained twitch. Emeric's fingers traveled to the small bones near the end of his wing, and a quick wrench brought about another snap. Fletcher didn't have enough breath left to scream. His vision tunneled, and his mouth gaped like a landed fish. He could feel his claws extending and retracting compulsively, his other wing flapping hard against the ropes, doing little more than making the entire chair rattle.

“You still with me?” Emeric's lips were beside his ear, and it was only then that Fletcher realized it was the third time he had repeated the question.

He whimpered.

“You want to talk to me, yet?” the hunter asked, soothing Fletcher's sweat-soaked hair back from his face. Emeric opened his mouth to say more, then looked up when he heard the creak of a floorboard from the first floor. He swore, flipping out his phone to check the time. He swore again. “Don't go anywhere, huh?”

Fletcher watched him practically run up the stairs, showing no sign of injury from the gunshot earlier. The demon wished the blackness creeping on the edges of his vision would take over, consume him, release him from the pain that still trembled through his whole body. But that last little bit of light still pulsed with every frantic beat of his heart. He stared down at the bloody concrete, each red drop falling in slow motion, the sound echoing between his ears. When finally the darkness started to contract, he became aware of the sound of multiple voices from above, Emeric's and some woman's. A very angry woman.

Maybe she would shoot the damned hunter, too.

Footsteps came back down the stairs, but he couldn't find the strength to lift his head.

“Emeric, what the fuck is wrong with you?” the woman scolded.

“It's a demon, Eve. He shot me.”

“I should, too!” A gloved hand touched Fletcher's cheek, tilting his head up just enough to look into his eyes. “If he tried to kill you, why didn't you just kill him? What did you do to him?”

“He's just a pawn. I needed to find out who sent him.” Emeric sounded almost contrite under her scolding. “What are you doing?”

Eve pulled the knife out of Fletcher's back gingerly, and as soon as it was removed he took in a breath. His vision cleared, and he pulled his mangled wing carefully against his back, the movement making him whimper again, spilling more blood over his lower lip. She used the blade to cut through the ropes binding him to the chair, freeing his wings first, then his hands and legs. Strong arms caught him before he hit the floor.

“Eve, what are you doing?” Emeric repeated with a snarl. “What are you going to do, carry him like that all the way back to your shop? Do you expect mercy from him once he's healed? You know how they feel about you. Like as not his master has you next on the hit list. They are all scum. Like Father René said—”

“I swear to God, if I hear his name come out of your mouth one more time,” Eve growled, dropping the knife and hoisting Fletcher into her arms. He closed his eyes, pinning his aching wings against his back as tightly as he could manage, as if keeping them out of Emeric's reach even now. “Get out of the way.”

Emeric threw his hands into the air. “Have it your way. But I am not coming to help you when the next pack of them come knocking at your door.”

“I don't need your help, Emeric. You're the one that needs mine.”

By the time she crossed the basement's threshold, Fletcher let himself fall into the welcoming blackness, only wondering briefly if it meant sleep or death. So long as the pain ceased, he didn't care.

 


	15. Abominations

When Fletcher finally woke, his world blossomed with pain at the corners. His eyes fluttered, and he found himself looking at an unfamiliar ceiling, the old wood rafters etched with more runes, carvings, and seals than he had ever seen in his life. He blinked a few times to find his focus, his gaze traveling from one marking to the next. They meant nothing to him, but occasionally a glance at a sigil would leave his skin tingling. He lifted one hand to his face, touching it gingerly. He was alive. He hurt in every fiber of his being, but he was alive.

And also, there was a cat asleep on his leg?

Fletcher sat up just enough to look down at the orange tabby stretched across his thigh, sound asleep and purring a soothing frequency. He swallowed a groan, supporting himself on one elbow to get a proper look around. He was on a bed tucked against a wall, warm sunlight spilling across the blankets. The walls and floor were all wood, and had the same comforting scent as the pages in an old library, mixed with the undeniable aroma of something baking. Leaning slightly to one side, he could see outside of the nook where the bed was kept, and the loft extended outwards to hold a narrow couch in front of a fireplace, a small dining table, four chairs, and a kitchen. Two doors led off to the side, presumably a closet and bathroom, and the far end of the room opened up to a staircase. If he strained, he could hear someone moving around downstairs, but beyond that he couldn't tell. He saw no pulse of soul beneath him, which either meant he was too weak to sense it, or it was something supernatural.

He was betting on the latter.

The demon sank back against the pillow once more, taking in a few breaths and quiet measurement of his pain. His wounds had all been wrapped, and he had been laid on the bed with his wings carefully tucked beside him. He extended one cautiously, his breath catching in his throat at the motion. Nope, those bones were still broken, and where the knife had been in his back burned worse than hellfire.

“The wounds on your wings will take the longest to heal, I'm afraid.”

Fletcher startled at the voice, so engrossed in the spikes of pain that he hadn't heard her come up the stairs. He opened his eyes again, and pressed his back harder against the bed. Shit. Oh, fuck.

Razi had never told him about the Abomination, either.

Even with the haze of pain floating all through him, his body became electric at the first sight of her, every instinct begging him to _run_ or _fight_ , anything to get away from this creature that should not be. She looked relatively harmless, from her concerned frown around her mismatched eyes, to a solid build that promised hours on her feet and working with her hands, hands that were covered in fingerless gloves. And the scars—claw marks on her head, a jagged line that cut from her collarbone to beneath the hem of her halter-top. The weather was too cold for that type of shirt, but a necessity for the one feathered wing that tucked against her back. But looks aside, even all of the oddities aside, she _felt_ wrong. She felt like a horror story. She felt like waking up in a cold sweat, the echoes of nightmares still thrumming in his head. She felt like—

The Abomination.

“Hi,” she greeted at his open-mouthed stare, offering him a gentle smile. “My name is Eve. You're safe here.” 

He swallowed, and had no moisture left in his throat. He opened his mouth, cleared his throat, and couldn't find words. 

“What's your name?” she asked after watching him struggle for a few moments.

“Fletcher.” The word sounded as hollow as he felt. Gutted, empty, pained, and quivering. But despite it all, she stepped away to give him his space, instead fussing with the oven to check its contents.

“Well, Fletcher, are you hungry?” She pulled a pan out of the oven, fresh rolls steaming as she set it on the counter. “I know demons don't  _need_ to eat, but it'll help you heal faster.” She glanced back over her shoulder at him, before ducking into the fridge.

He could hear his heart in his ears, thrumming an alarm with every pulse, but he just sat up slowly, using the headboard for support. His movement dislodged the cat, who grumbled a complaint and stretched with an exaggerated yawn. “Where am I?”

“At my home,” she answered without turning, carving meat off of a cooked turkey. He stared at her back, at the single wing, at the way a scar glimmered on the sliver of bare skin between her shirt and the hem of her pants, at how her jeans folded around the top of her combat boots. The longer he looked, the more the insistent need to  _run_ seemed to abate, replaced by a sense of confusion. 

“Why did you save me?” he asked at last. “How did you know I was there?”

“I didn't know you were there.” She shrugged, tilting her head just enough that he could see her easy smile. “I was coming to visit Emeric for another matter, and I smelled blood.” That smile strained at the corners, and she cut off a slice of meat with more force than necessary. “I am sorry about him. What he is now—it isn't his fault. Well, it's not entirely his fault. He tries. Most of the time he fails, but he tries. He thinks he's doing what's right, but—anyway. He won't bother you here.”

“You know what I am. You can see my wings. You can see me.”

She nodded. “I know you're a demon, Fletcher.”

“What are you?”

Eve chuckled, poking at the rolls to see if they were cool enough. “I'm going to assume that blood loss and pain has made you blunt. I believe your kind tend to call me the Abomination. I'm...” She gestured vaguely with the point of the knife, looking wistfully towards the ceiling. “I don't think there's another word for it. My soul was destroyed. This is what I am now. So I guess Abomination is the only word.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling goosebumps there. “And you didn't try to kill me.”

“No, I didn't,” she agreed. “I've known my fair share of angels, demons, and other immortals. Enough to know that being one thing or another does not dictate your morality or worth.” She cut one of the rolls in half at last, filling it with turkey and cheese before bringing it over to him. “It's still a bit warm, but I figured you wouldn't care much at this point. How did Emeric get you in his basement?”

“I was sent after him.” Fletcher wasn't sure why he was telling her the truth, or telling her anything at all, but he was too exhausted to chide himself on loose lips. He took the rough sandwich, the first bite making his stomach growl. He may not need to eat, but it tasted damned good, and maybe she was right. Anything to help the pain ease faster. 

“Whoever sent you must either be stupid, or have it out for you.”

“Probably the latter.” Razi was many things, but he never imagined him to be  _stupid_ . He polished off the sandwich. Eve brought him another. 

“You're welcome to stay here as long as you need,” she assured quietly, picking up the cat when he started sneaking closer to Fletcher's hands, eyeing the turkey. “I'll even keep Prince downstairs with me so he doesn't steal your food. Get some sleep. No one will bother you here. I've got the place warded against pretty much everything.”

“I noticed.” He looked up to the rafters again. “Can you teach me some of those?”

“Whatever you want to learn,” she promised. “I'll be downstairs. Just yell if you need me.” 

Fletcher curled up on the bed again, but he didn't sleep. He dozed, drifted in and out of dreams, and felt the bones in his wings slowly realign. He felt the deeper wounds knit and his skin heal over, felt the bullet get pushed out of his leg and roll across the mattress, settling cold and crushed against his thigh. He curled up tighter. At some point, the cat returned to the bed, stretching out above his head and kneading the ends of his bloody and tangled hair. He heard a bell downstairs, and low voices that came and went. Footsteps on old wood, bartering over a glass counter, and Eve's laughter that echoed up the stairs. 

When the sunlight drifted in yellow lances across the floor, turned deep red, and then faded into the pale glow of streetlights, Fletcher finally sat up again. The pain had all-but ceased, and when he stretched he no longer ached as if the knife were still buried in his back. It was all more of an echo now, still painful, but tolerable. 

Eve looked up from the couch, a book spread across her knees. “Hey, you're awake again.”

“I don't know that I really slept.”

She smiled. “You were pretty passed out when I came back upstairs. How do you feel?”

Confused was the first word that came to mind, followed shortly by worried. He pulled his lower lip between his teeth and stood carefully. His legs wobbled, but held him upright. “I'll survive.”

“Well, I can see that.” She set the book over the arm of the couch. “You can stay until morning, if you'd like.”

“I need to check on a few things. I need to go.” Go where, though? He couldn't go back to Hell, not with Razi likely expecting him to be dead. And what if Merrick was still being watched by the other angels? 

And was Merrick okay?

“If you ever need a place to lay low, my door is open,” Eve assured. “You'll just have to come in through the shop door. If you want to leave, go downstairs. You won't be able to from up here.”

“You don't have your whole place protected?”

She smiled. “Demons occasionally need to trade products, too. Some of them I'll deal with.” 

“Thank you. I don't—” His hands moved awkwardly, and he looked everywhere but her face. “Thank you. I owe you.”

“Just don't go after Emeric again, huh?”

“You don't have to worry about that.” Fletcher tried to smile, but it came out hollow and tired. Not knowing how else to say goodbye to his savior, he headed for the stairs, descending them wordlessly. He could feel the haze of magic change once he hit the threshold, and a slight pressure he hadn't noticed on his chest was abruptly relieved. When he stepped out into the cool night air, he found a quiet, dark alley nearby, sat down, and pulled out a cigarette. Where was he going to go now? How can he be sure there was any haven for him? Who could he trust?

Blowing smoke into the damp air, he closed his eyes. “Chael, you said to pray for you when I was ready,” he whispered. The cigarette quivered between his fingers. “I think I'm ready. I just....I don't know how to pray to an angel.”

The soft flutter of wings was enough for him to open his eyes. He looked up, half-expecting a blade to come whirring for his head, a final end to his indecision. Instead, Chael crouched in front of him, and offered his empty hands. “I think you've got the gist of it.”

“I don't know where else to go,” Fletcher admitted quietly, watching the angel glow in the night. 

“I can take you somewhere safe for awhile. We'll talk about redemption once you're fully healed. If you still want it then.”

“Merrick—?”

“He's fine,” Chael assured, helping him back to his feet. “Didn't even realize you were missing yet. He's been busy with his ward. And with—” He pressed his lips together. “With Heaven's politics. Let's get you cleaned up, huh? As soon as you no longer look like you had the shit kicked out of you, I'll let Merrick know where you are.”

“Razi will know I'm not dead.”

“Where I take you, no demons will be able to find you. Don't worry about them.” 

Fletcher took in a deep breath, and closed his eyes as he felt the wind pick up around them, wreathed in golden light. 

He worried. 

 


	16. Stargazing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some nudity and dubious consent in this chapter, but nothing explicit.

“You're looking tired, Guardian.”

The sound of Michael's voice startled Merrick out of his thoughts. Something about the sight of the archangel always left him breathless, the spread of his massive wings, the way the light of Heaven seemed to follow his step. He smiled, trying to brush away the swirling thoughts and the weary slump of his shoulders.

“It's been a long few days,” he evaded, the words sounding lame on his tongue.

“I heard about the business with the demons,” Michael soothed. The archangel sat beside him, curling one wing around Merrick's and drawing him a bit closer. The warmth seeped into his skin, and he closed his eyes and drank it in. It seemed to soothe away all of the tension in his muscles, all of the ache in his jaw from his gritted teeth, the frown that had worked its way between his eyes for days now. It gave him everything he had wanted when he had gone back to Fletcher, and the demon had been too preoccupied to notice how upset he was.

“It was nothing.” He leaned against the archangel's shoulder, and when Michael tucked an arm around his waist, he found himself pressed against his side. “They were just coming to exert their influence over Abby, or disturb her work. I called to Eztli, and she took care of them.”

“It is nice to see the Garrison doing their jobs.” Michael's voice had a hint of snide loathing, but it didn't last past the mention of the Garrison. “You know if you are ever in trouble, you can call on me, as well.”

The heat that rose to his cheeks felt like the fires of Hell, and all he could see was Heaven's flaming sword, Michael's righteous fury, those wings that could black out the sky, all diving for Fletcher's throat. Eztli could be stopped by a word from Chael. Michael would never understand how he felt about a demon.

Would he?

“I'm not important enough to call you away from Heaven.”

“You are important, Merrick.” Michael's lips were beside his ear, and when he blinked all he could see were stars. He couldn't breathe, warm heat thrumming through his skin, the press of feathers against his back, the blackness and the light all swirling in his head. “You are so important. Not only to Heaven, but to me. You are a shepherd of souls. Without you, there would be no Heaven.”

“I don't understand.” He didn't understand why he was important, why he was important to _Michael_ , why he could see nothing but light, why he felt himself shaking in Michael's arm. It seemed like the world was bursting and flooding and he felt tears on his cheeks. Everything came crashing like a wave against a ragged cliff—getting caught on the beach, the conversation with Chael, Fletcher, and Fletcher, and Fletcher, the demons going after Abby, Fletcher showing up under Eztli's nose and the deep panic he felt with it, Fletcher's face so full of worry, Fletcher so full of doubt, filling his heart with a fear he couldn't confess to anyone. He opened his mouth to say more, but the words choked, and the tears wouldn't stop, and his feathers trembled like the autumn leaves in a brisk wind, threatening to tear away with one more gust.

When Merrick opened his eyes again at last, through the blurred tears he realized that Michael had cradled him in his lap, and they sat on the edge of the water, a warm breeze like gentle hands against his cheeks. 

“Hush, now,” Michael soothed, cupping his face in one hand, the other supportive around his waist. “You are safe in the arms of Heaven. What has hurt you will never do so again.”

“Nothing has hurt me.” Nothing aside from his own heart, which beat so hard in his chest, thrumming with every fresh tear. He felt like an idiot, like a child, sitting in the lap of the most powerful being in Heaven and crying, but the light was hot and bright, and he couldn't seem to stop. He wanted to go back to earth and wrap Fletcher in his arms and beg him to be as good as Merrick knew he could be, he wanted to go to Chael and demand that the angel give his lover a chance, he wanted to go back to when he and Fletcher were tangled in the bunker, for once feeling at home and at peace since he had earned his wings. It just wasn't fair. “I just don't understand, and it's—” His hands moved in front of him, trying to find the words.

Michael caught his hands between both of his own, and the intense, pulsing light seemed to fade and focus, and he could finally breathe again. “I can help you understand.” He pulled Merrick closer, quieting a protest with his nearness. Merrick could see every pulse of the archangel's heartbeat as it seemed to push gold through his veins, a shimmer of starlight. He took in a deep breath, and felt a wave of exhaustion clear away the tears at last. Pulse after pulse of warmth shuddered down from his fingertips, and he tipped his head forward, resting his brow against Michael's shoulder and just breathing until the tears had at last ceased. 

“Let me show you the truth of Heaven,” Michael whispered, his lips against the angel's ear again. “I will tell you everything that the Garrison Leader refuses to, that Teremun refuses to. You are not a child, Merrick, and you are not stupid. I see you for who you are, for what you are. It is time you know the truth.”

“What truth?” He pressed his face against the side of Michael's neck, and he felt as if he could breathe him in, his head starting to spin. His heart rate slowed and his vision clouded, and the more Michael spoke, the further away the archangel sounded, even if he was just pressing closer. Merrick wrapped his arms around Michael's waist, as much to keep himself grounded as to drink him in more. 

“You were made in my image, little angel.” Michael's lips were touching his skin, and the world swirled, condensed, expanded, and even with his eyes closed all he could see was the infinite sky full of stars. He could feel Michael's wings surrounding them both, feathers like stardust and empty sky, and in the blackness he could see  _everything_ and nothing and oh God if this was what dying was like, he could float in this for all eternity. “Heaven is not of this world, nor am I. I am this world. I am Heaven. And I want you to be by my side here, to bring in the souls that power our world, and to never feel pain or confusion again. I can show you the truth of Heaven, and the truth of everything. Can't you see it?”

Merrick felt as if he were on the edge of a cliff, the sea air against his face, Michael's arms around his waist and seafoam and feathers flying in the wind. But it all made sense at last, as if he could see Heaven, see the souls of the other angels, see the souls down below, and see Michael, stardust and power and the only thing that bound them all here. From the golden trees to the whisper of wind, to the permeating light like an ever-present sun—it was Michael, ethereal and separate, and holding him so close. 

“Why me?” He wasn't aware of his lips moving, but Michael lifted up his head, and when he opened his eyes the archangel cradled his jaw. 

“Because I chose you, tender heart. Isn't that enough?” 

He felt a flush of warmth from his dizzy head down to his toes. Breathless, spinning, falling, burning, heaving like a ship in a storm, at the mercy of the wind and the waves and the prayers to deaf Gods. “I am not worthy of that.”

“Aren't you?” And Michael's lips were pressed against his, and in a breath Merrick was floating again. He slid his arms around Michael's neck, kissing him back so hard it made his lips ache. His skin buzzed and his wings shook, and Michael's hands were seeking and it was all he could do not to beg for them to find more to touch. Electricity leapt from every brush of his fingers, and Merrick couldn't breathe for gasping. 

“Aren't you?” Michael pressed teasingly. Merrick wasn't sure when he ended up on his back, but his wings were sprawled out behind him, and when he looked up he could see the archangel propped on one arm above him. He wasn't sure when their clothes had disappeared, or where they had gone, but all he could do was drink in the sight of the archangel. His skin glowed from within, every curve of muscle perfectly smooth, no scar or blemish marking him. No discoloration, no freckles, nothing but skin like marble and massive wings that blotted out the sky. “Did you not ever gaze at the stars, Merrick, and wonder if they were looking back?”

“Yes,” he breathed, shaking fingers reaching up to touch Michael's chest.

“They are looking at you now.” 

Merrick leaned up and kissed him again, sliding his tongue between Michael's lips. The heat seemed to churn higher, and when Michael finally reached down to touch him, he couldn't help a groan. 

“I want you, Merrick,” Michael whispered, nuzzling into his neck until he tilted his head back and whimpered again. “And you are going to be the one beside me, knelt at my feet and basking in my glory.”

The words seemed a hollow echo compared to the beating of his heart, and the feeling of Michael's lips sliding down his throat, and wondering if he would ever be able to breathe again. 

Breathing did not come until after his head had cleared, and he lay on the soft grass, his head cradled in the crook of Michael's arm. He wasn't aware if he had really slept or just floated, but for once there was no nervous buzzing between his ears, and for a blissful short time he could just feel warm and secure and without worry. He cracked open his eyes just enough to look at Michael again, at the impossibility of his body, from the skin that bore no marks despite his desperate fingers, to the wings that had settled to a pale glow. But if Michael really wanted to keep him here, by his side, could he possibly convince him to allow Fletcher to join Heaven as well? And would it be a faster and more reliable route than redemption?

“Merrick?” 

He heard Chael's voice calling his name like an echo across a canyon, and jerked upright, putting one hand to his face. It was a prayer alone, and he couldn't thank his lucky stars enough for that, half-expecting to look over and see the Viking staring at him nude and sprawled beside Michael. What would Chael think? What would he do?

And would he tell Fletcher?

“Are you alright?” Michael asked, watching him scramble for his clothes. 

“I just—I should get back. I have work I should be doing.”

“Always willing to be of service to Heaven.” Michael's smile left him feeling tangled, and his hands fumbled with his clothes. “If you need anything, Merrick, you only need but to call me.”

“I know.” His head began to throb as if he were battling a hangover, and the feeling intensified as he pulled away from Michael, walking faster than necessary. Every old ache and tension returned, even if the pleasant warmth remained coiled in his core. What was he doing? What had he done? And what was he supposed to do now?

Chael caught him by the arms before Merrick plowed right into him, steadying the other angel with a frown. “Woah. Are you okay? I was about to come looking for you when you didn't answer.”

“I'm fine.” He batted away Chael's hands, his skin still tingling. “What's wrong?”

“It's Fletcher.” Chael's frown pulled the old familiar lines around his eyes. “He's—well, let me take you to him. Once I'm sure that you're not injured.”

“I'm not hurt!” He stepped away as Chael reached for him again. “What's wrong with Fletcher?”

“He was attacked by a hunter. He's alive,” he added quickly. “I have him in a safe place. Let me take you there, and then we can all talk about what's going to happen next.”

At last, Merrick took Chael's hand, casting one last glance over his shoulder at the warm light of Heaven. In its glow, he could see stardust, promises, and a feeling of disquiet gnawing in the pit of his stomach. 

 

 


	17. The Oncoming Storm

If Merrick didn't know better, he would have thought that Chael picked out the safe house for him, and not for Fletcher.

Merrick could hear the ocean as soon as they landed, and even though it was biting cold, he lingered a moment longer on the front step just to take in the view. The house was little more than a cottage, its paint chipped from the constant salt wind, a gravel road stretching towards a rocky shoreline. “Where are we?” he asked breathlessly, the wind ruffling his hair, carrying with it the promise of freedom and a storm clouding the horizon. Where the sea met sky was nothing but boiling gray.

“At one point in time, this was my home,” Chael said with a tired smile. “This used to be the harbor for our ships, and our town lay there.” He waved a hand to where a plateau of flat grassland shivered in the cold, rippling to the edge of a massive forest of conifers and backed by white-capped mountains. “That was a very long time ago, though. This is an old fisherman's cottage that has been warded against angels and demons. It was used by a hunter for a long time.”

“What if the hunter comes back?”

“Unless there is a necromancer nearby, I doubt that'll happen.” He put a guiding hand on Merrick's shoulder, then opened the door at last. A wave of warmth greeted them, and Merrick took in a careful breath, feeling a tingle in his feathers when he passed through the threshold. The old wooden floor was carved with more symbols than he had seen in his life, and it seemed every wall and rafter were etched the same.

“He was also paranoid,” Chael put in with a smile, locking the door behind them. “So nothing supernatural can come in, aside from the front door, with a key.”

“How did you get the key?”

“A story for another time,” he promised. “Fletcher is in the bed upstairs. I'll be waiting down here, if you need anything.”

“You're staying?”

“For a short time. I want you two to talk first, and I'll make sure the house is secure. Maybe make a pot of tea.”

Merrick smiled weakly. He still felt flushed all over, felt as if he were hungover, or maybe still drunk. “I think tea would be good.”

Chael's hand lingered on his shoulder. “I won't leave without telling you first. You sure there's nothing you want to talk about?'

He shook his head. It made him dizzy. “Let me see Fletcher first.”

Chael gestured towards the stairs. They creaked with each step, and Merrick hung onto the rail just in case one of them decided to give way.

“How does Chael manage to go up the steps without making a sound, but you sound like an elephant with tap shoes?” Fletcher greeted, buried under a handmade quilt and sitting on the bed propped up by pillows.

Merrick lingered in the doorway, the frown between his eyes making his head throb with renewed vigor. “You're hurt.”

The demon waved a hand weakly. “I'm healing.” He pulled his lower lip between his teeth, watching Merrick for a long moment. “Come here. Are you okay?”

The question was enough to make Merrick's wings tremble, a wave of emotion hitting him like the storm-driven crests outside. “Not really.” He closed the distance between them, crawling onto the small bed and curling up beside Fletcher. “Where does it hurt? I don't want to make it worse.”

“It's not bad any longer,” Fletcher lied, wrapping an arm around Merrick to pull him closer. The pain in the angel's face was worse than any lingering aches from Emeric's blade. “What's wrong?”

Merrick pressed his cheek to Fletcher's chest, tucking both arms carefully around him and folding his wings over the both of them, warmer than the blanket. “I'm just worried,” he said after a long silence.

“Worried about what?”

He closed his eyes tightly to keep tears from spilling over, and his fingers curled into Fletcher's shirt. “Everything,” he whispered, wondering when his throat had tightened so much. “I'm worried about you. I'm worried about someone else finding out about us. I just wish—” His voice broke, and he groped for words. Fletcher's fingers soothed through his hair, giving him time. “I wish there was a way I could get you to Heaven without everything being so unsure. So complicated.”

“I am going to go through redemption,” Fletcher said firmly. “I've decided. I can do it, Merrick. I can live another life, and show Heaven that I am worthy of white wings. Chael said he could get me there, if I was willing to try. He said he has Tyr creating the world for me already. All I need to go is go to sleep, and I'll be there, whenever I'm ready. He said it'll be like an extended dream for me, and that'll be it. And then you won't have to worry about who finds out.”

“Are you sure?” He tugged at his shirt some, finding a bandage underneath and running his fingers carefully over the wound. If it had taken this long to heal, even with help, they must have been much worse than Fletcher or Chael had let on. “If something goes wrong—”

“I can do it,” Fletcher insisted, the strength in his voice surprising even him. “For you, I can do it.”

“Don't do it for me.” Merrick lifted his head at last, looking up into the demon's face. “Do it for you, Fletcher. You are a good man. You deserve Heaven.”

Fletcher cupped his chin, his fingers ghosting over his cheek adoringly. “I've found it.”

Merrick felt his cheeks flush with color, and at last the pain in his head began to clear. He sat up just enough to kiss his lover, nestling into the crook of his neck and letting the sound of his heartbeat soothe away the last of the ache.

Across the water, thunder rumbled.

Chael gave them nearly half an hour before he walked up the stairs, making no noise until he rapped on the door frame. Merrick startled, half-asleep against his lover, but Fletcher just squeezed him a bit tighter and offered Chael a cautious smile.

“I brought up tea,” Chael greeted, coming to set a tray down on the bedside table. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Fletcher lied. “I am ready for redemption.”

“Soon, you will be.” Chael wasn't watching the demon though—his eyes were on Merrick. “And what about you?”

“Tired,” Merrick answered at last, reaching across his lover to pick up one of the mugs. “I just had a headache, is all.”

“Angels don't often get headaches.”

“I think it's just because I was talking to Michael for so long. He just—intense.”

“Michael?” Chael repeated, that frown clouding his eyes now. “Why was Michael talking to you?”

Merrick felt his cheeks pink, and he took a sip of tea. “I think he just noticed I was upset. He was being kind. We just got to talking, that's all.”

“Michael, being kind?” Chael repeated. Rain began to patter against the heavy glass windows. “I'm going to go see how Tyr is doing with making that redemption world for you, Fletcher. Why don't you both stay here and get some rest? I'll be back in a few hours. Drink your tea,” he added, already turning for the door again. Merrick could see a tension in his shoulders, his white feathers fluffed and his wings hunched forward as if ready to shield himself.

“What was that all about?” Fletcher asked quietly, once the other angel had disappeared down the stairs. “Who is Michael?”

“The archangel,” Merrick explained, leaning back against Fletcher's shoulder again. “I know he and Chael don't see eye to eye. But he's not a bad person. He's just...he cares a lot about Heaven, and he can be very intense. The Sword of Heaven and all.”

Fletcher frowned, staring at a single white feather left in the doorway. “I wouldn't want to be the one who crosses Chael, archangel or not.”

Merrick heard the howl of the wind as the front door opened downstairs, the sound of rain becoming louder for a moment, a growl of thunder shaking the house. Then the door slammed shut again, locked, and in the next flash of lightning he could have sworn he saw Chael ascending to Heaven.

 

                                                                                                                             ***

 

“Michael, I need to talk with you.” Chael came into Heaven still smelling like rain and electricity, shaking water from his wings. It took all his will not to have an axe in hand, and water ran down his cheeks like war paint, steaming as the droplets dried in Heaven's warm light.

“Garrison Leader,” Michael greeted coolly, barely sparing him a glance. “I am rather busy. Can this wait?”

“It can't.” Chael knew what Michael meant by _busy_. The archangel lounged beside one of the glimmering lakes, thumbing through a book and basking in the glow of his own glory. Much more important than talking to Chael. “It's about Merrick.”

That, at least, made the archangel look up from his book. He sat up and stretched his wings slowly, the feathers darkening at the tips in a mute threat.

Chael did not move. Steam still rose from his wings, and it curled like the necks of dragon-tipped boats.

“What about the Guardian?” Michael asked at last, standing with slow deliberation.

“What are you doing, going after an angel like him?” Chael's wings flared. “He's young and naive, and fragile. Why are you inserting yourself into his life? You don't normally give us  _lesser_ angels the time of day.”

“Some angels are worth less than others,” Michael noted scathingly. “My business is my own, and my chosen in Heaven are chosen for a reason. I don't need to tell anyone why, least of all  _you_ .”

“Targeting angels is not going to do you any favors.” He tilted his chin. “Push things too much, and you could end up like Lucifer did.”

Michael curled his lip, his snarl darkening the sky. “Lucifer is where he is because of me.”

“You may have been the one to put the sword through his chest, but he only got there because of his impatience and God complex. I've read the history, Michael, and I know where he is now. And I know he may have survived as a mortal, but you couldn't handle it.”

“Lucifer is dead.”

“Lucifer is living, but not in a manner you could stand,” Chael corrected. “And you may think yourself immortal, above and beyond the rest of us, but you need us in Heaven to survive. Let Merrick do his job, and find his own way. You don't need another angel at your feet. You'll burn through him, and leave nothing left.”

Michael stepped forward, and the light of Heaven burned out, replaced by blinding stars in a blanket of smoky night. “Who are you to judge the strength of other angels, Chael? Merrick is not in your Garrison. Merrick is not yours. And I'll thank you not to mention it again, unless you'd like a repeat of the last time you and I had a disagreement.”

Chael felt heat in his wings, and smoke curled from his feathers as the tips began to smolder, shaking under the ripples of power rolling off of the archangel. But he didn't move, one hand curling around the handle of an axe that had appeared at last, though he didn't raise his arm. He didn't gesture, he didn't threaten, he just stood and stared at Michael, squinting against the waves of heat and refusing to be moved.

“Oh, Garrison Leader,” Michael sighed, taking one step forward to touch his cheek lightly. “For someone who has so much to live for, why do you tempt death so often?”

“There are things worth fighting for.”

The soft light of Heaven returned, and Michael wiped a few spots of blood off of Chael's cheek from where it had started to seep from the corners of his eyes. “You need to decide soon which of those things are most important to you. If you cannot save them all, which child will you sacrifice to the wrath of your favored Gods?”

“That's the difference between you and me, Michael. I don't sacrifice my family to save myself.”

Michael's fingers curled against his cheek, smearing the blood and threatening to draw more. “You have family left. I would worry more about protecting them, rather than trying to collect more for your brood.”

“Michael? May I have a word with you, sir?”

The archangel smiled, but didn't look over when he heard another angel's voice, his fingers still biting into Chael's face. “Think on it, Garrison Leader,” he said at last, then shoved him away, folding his wings calmly. “Of course, Teremun. Let us walk. Tell me, how have the Guardians been faring?”

Chael watched the two of them walk off, and finally relaxed his grip on the axe, allowing it to disappear. “Tyr,” he whispered, closing his aching eyes at last. “I hope you're almost ready. We need to move things faster, before it all goes to hell.” He folded his smoking wings, pain rippling down his back. “As if we're not already there.”

 


	18. Redemption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some implied sexual activity in the beginning of this chapter. It is nothing explicit.

“ _Merrick_.”

The last of the storm brought little more than the soft patter of rain on the sloping roof, just enough noise that he had to strain to hear the sound of his name. Merrick settled himself a bit lower between Fletcher's legs, not quite able to see his face, but the erratic rise and fall of his chest and the way he clutched at the blankets told him enough.

“ _Merrick_ .”

He hid a smile against Fletcher's skin, eliciting another gasp out of his lover as his fingers found all the familiar places, avoiding wounds that were still fresh in favor of more pleasurable sensations.

“ _Merrick!”_

Fletcher sat up abruptly, his cheeks hot. “Did you hear that?” he asked breathlessly, tangling his fingers into Merrick's hair to pull his head up a touch. “It sounded like someone said your name. Do you think Chael is coming back?”

“Didn't you say my name?” Merrick asked with a frown, propping himself up on one arm to look around. He didn't sense Chael anywhere nearby.

“I haven't said anything.”

“ _Merrick!_ ” 

The angel swore vehemently, scrambling out from under the blankets and pulling his clothes on again. “That's Teremun, he's calling for me. Something must be wrong with Abby.”

“I thought this place was warded?”

“Prayers can be heard through wards.” He fluttered his wings, and paused long enough to lean down and kiss Fletcher quickly. “I'll be back. If I'm not back before Chael gets here—well, just tell him where I went, huh? I need to make sure that Abby is okay.”

Fletcher caught his hand. “Be careful.”

“Get some rest,” he encouraged. 

Fletcher watched him disappear, shifting the blankets uncomfortably. Rest after an interruption like that was going to be harder than—well—

He heard the door open and close downstairs, and leaned back against the pillows with a sigh. Merrick was gone, into the gray mists outside and to whoever was calling him, whatever was calling him away again. He had a duty to fulfill after all, and Fletcher couldn't fault him for it. But it would have been nice to have the peace and quiet and the time to spend together. Alone.

The door downstairs creaked again, the key scraping in the lock assuring him that it had to be a friend coming. He fully expected Chael when he heard only a single groan from the ancient stairs, but when he opened his eyes at last, it was a different familiar angel. 

“Hey,” Tyr greeted, leaning his shoulder on the door frame and offering Fletcher a lopsided smile. 

Fletcher grimaced despite himself. “You're not here to get me drunk again, are you?”

The angel laughed. “Not unless you want to before you go in.”

“Go in?”

Tyr peeled himself away from the door, and snagged a chair from the desk on his way over. Turning it around, he sat on it facing Fletcher, crossing his arms over the back and straddling his legs on either side of it. “Into redemption, of course. I've got the world ready for you. All you have to do is agree that you want to do it, and take a nap.”

“Take a nap?” Fletcher felt like a parrot in a cage, trapped and able to do nothing else aside from stare and repeat words. “What about Merrick? He just left. He'll worry.”

The angel smiled easily. “I said a nap, not a two-week coma. He probably won't even be back by the time you're done. You're going into a different world—that means time moves differently, and it's greatly accelerated compared to time on Earth. Or time in Heaven, for that matter.”

Fletcher's head gave a throb. It never really occurred to him that such a thing was possible, but it made sense, if he gave it more than a moment's thought. The time he had spent in Hell was different than the years that had passed on Earth, and he didn't realize it until then. So time on Earth moved differently than Heaven and Hell, it would make sense enough that another universe, especially an artificial one, would do the same. Were Heaven and Hell's times the same to each other? 

That seemed a series of questions for a different moment.

For now, he took a deep breath, and licked his dry lips. “Can you tell me anything about where I'll be going, or what I'll be doing?”

Tyr's smile would have been infectious if Fletcher wasn't so nervous. “Well, Chael let me choose what time you'll be living through. Let's just say you'll be able to put those songs I taught you to good use. As to what you'll be doing, well—that'll be largely up to you.”

“I feel like making me a Viking is not the best way to get me into Heaven.”

“Who said you would be a Viking? You just might hear them sing.” He offered up both hands, his smile softening a touch. “Do you want to do this, Fletcher? You can still back out.”

Fletcher swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and his palms hovered over Tyr's, the breath of space between them enough to get his heart pounding. Every inch of him begged to run, to find somewhere else to hide, to find another way. But all he had to do was sleep, right? It would be a vivid dream, and when he woke, he could show Merrick his new wings, his new life, and leave behind the brimstone and smoke at last. 

Maybe forever.

Slowly, Fletcher lowered his hands into Tyr's. “I want to do this.”

“May Odin give you knowledge on your path, may Thor grant you strength and courage on your way, and may Loki give you laughter as you go,” Tyr said, raising his right hand. The last thing Fletcher saw before a heaviness closed his eyes was the angel's smile, and the fog across the ocean behind them. 

 


	19. The Damned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for blood and violence in this chapter.

Merrick practically ran out the front door, pausing only long enough to lock it behind him. Rain misted like a kiss on his cheeks, and he shook out his feathers before disappearing. He went to Teremun first, out of breath when he landed beside the angel, nearly falling over in his haste.

Teremun steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. The perpetual frown between his eyes had deepened, and Merrick felt a squeeze of guilt in his chest. “What took you so long?”

“I—I was with, ah—I was busy.” He could feel the heat in his face, trying not to think about exactly  _what_ he had been doing instead of answering prayers, especially considering who he was doing it with. There were days he could swear Teremun could read his mind, and he didn't want to press his luck today with it. 

Teremun had not become the head of the Guardians by being lenient.

“Busy?” he repeated, curling his lip some and folding his arms over his chest. “You have been busy, and meanwhile your charge has been cozying up to a necromancer with a demon living inside of him.”

“What?” In the blink of an eye, they were in the same room as Abby, back in the lab again as she leaned over papers, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Raen. “A necromancer? Is that what he is?”

Raen's pale eyes flicked up to them, and Merrick felt his feathers prickle.

“Can he see us?”

“I told you, he has a demon in him,” Teremun scowled. “He can see and hear you. So I suggest you nudge Abby away from this place, and away from him, before she ends up on the wrong path.”

“So he's possessed?”

Teremun's long-suffering expression made Merrick flinch. “You have a lot to learn, Guardian. Focus on your job for once.”

Merrick folded his wings as his superior disappeared, wondering if there would ever be a time that Teremun would speak to him without making him feel guilty. He looked back to Raen and Abby at last, to find the necromancer looking at him directly once more. Merrick shivered. When was the last time a mortal had seen him? Had they ever? He was so used to living in the corners and in the shadows, exerting a subtle influence and a smile that could never be seen. Abby had her eyes down on the papers. Raen stared at him with a look of vague amusement.

“I'm—I'm just here to help her,” Merrick said at last, taking in a deep breath and tilting his chin as if he could make himself look more intimidating. His wings fluffed. He felt like a startled bird.

The necromancer smiled faintly, and leaned his hip against the desk. “What do you think, Abigail? Could you do it?” he asked smoothly, as if he hadn't heard Merrick.”

“I think it would be an interesting experiment,” she agreed. “Your research, Dr. Toussaint—it's amazing. How long have you been looking into this? Where did you come up with the ideas?”

“I read a lot,” he remarked mildly. He glanced to the angel again, as if Merrick were part of an inside joke, but the angel had no idea what the punchline was supposed to be.

“If we could actually harness energy like this—God, it would be endless, endless clean energy for the entire world. Which would mean, of course, that big oil will probably send assassins after us or something,” she added with a teasing smile. “If we can get it to work.”

“We can get it to work. It'll just take time, and patience.” Again, he looked to Merrick, who felt as if he had insects crawling beneath his skin.

“Abby, what are you even working on?” Merrick whispered, coming around at last to stand over her shoulder. But the page was filled with formulas and notes and all he could think of was Teremun's voice in his ear, and the demon he'd left in bed back at what was nearly home, and Michael's hand on his shoulder, and promises and work and how was he supposed to pull her away from this necromancer when this was following her dreams? Didn't Michael say to encourage her to work on this, because it was important? How was he supposed to know what to do? He licked his dry lips, and cleared his throat. “You need to stop bothering her,” he said at last, addressing Raen directly.

“I need to step out for awhile. I'll check back in on you in a few hours, once I've tended to a few things,” the necromancer said, leaving Abby to the scrawled notes. A gesture of his head invited Merrick to follow, and after a moment's hesitation, the angel trailed after him. Raen stepped into the hall, tucking his hands into his sleeves.

“Leave her alone,” Merrick said again.

“What makes you think I'm bothering her?” Raen scolded, looking the angel up and down. “I'm doing research with her. What I do outside of this building has absolutely no impact on what I'm doing inside of it. This is just an extension of my soul research in the practical world.”

“You have a demon in you.” He could feel it under that impassive gaze, the way his feathers prickled and his heart thrummed. Or maybe that was just because Raen looked him in the eye, fearless and even a touch bored, a promise of power rippling just beneath his dark skin. “She needs to get into Heaven.”

“If Heaven wants her, I have a feeling they will stop at nothing to get her there,” he assured dryly. “I have no corrupting influence on her soul. I have seen her soul—and yours. I don't think I am the reason that you were sent down here. I am the least of your concerns, angel. And I would appreciate it if you left me alone to my work.” His lip curled just slightly, and his hands tightened against his arms. “You lost your opportunity to be saviors years ago.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Forgive me for having little faith in angels.” He turned to walk down the hall at last, but Merrick caught his arm.

“So you put your faith in demons instead?”

Raen tugged his arm free. “I put my faith into study. As I said, I am not what should be concerning you.”

“Then what _should_ be concerning me?” But the necromancer was already walking away, leaving him alone to his swirl of thoughts and the hard beating of his heart. He turned back into the room at last, pulling his wings in tight to avoid banging them on the door frame.

A thin trail of smoke twisted from the end of Razi's cigarette as the demon lounged against the far wall, a hellhound sitting on either side of him. He flashed Merrick a smile, and touched his fingers to his brow in a mock-salute. “Hey, feathers.”

Merrick froze, looking between him and Abby, who continued to pour over the papers in happy oblivion.

“Oh, don't worry,” Razi purred. “I'm not here for you. I'm here for her.”

“You don't have any influence over her.” Merrick stepped forward with shaking hands. “She's not that kind of person.”

“Isn't she?” He chuckled, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “How much do you know about hellhounds?”

Merrick cast a glance at the hulking beasts sitting at Razi's feet. “I know you twisted animal souls to make them.”

“Not me personally,” Razi chuckled. “We've got Grim for that. Do you know what happens when a hellhound bites a mortal?” He flicked his hand, and one of the hounds stood, curling its lips back to show three rows of needle-sharp teeth. “Well, aside from painful, it's pretty—how shall I put it?” He waved his hand in a slow circle, the smoke trailing after it like a promise. “Damning.”

The hound padded forward, each step leaving behind a pawprint singed into the floor. Its jaw gaped wider, a snake-like tongue lolling out of one corner. Merrick jerked away from the door at last, wrapping both arms and wings around Abby to yank her off of her chair and away from the beast. Its teeth found purchase in Merrick's wing instead, jerking both him and Abby to the ground. She hit the floor hard and breathless, and her eyes found focus on the angel's face where he still held her protectively.

“Wh—what—?”

_Garrison, I need your help!_

“It's alright,” Merrick whispered, panic fluttering his chest while she stared at him wide-eyed. “I'm—I'm a friend. You're safe.”

“What are you?”

The hound snarled, yanking harder on his wing and splattering blood across the laboratory floor. Merrick's cry of pain muted the sound of wings, and Tyr buried his axe in between the hound's ribs. Abby screamed in surprise, scrambling out of Merrick's arms and back towards the door.

“Get her out of here,” Tyr ordered, yanking Merrick back to his feet. “I've got this.”

“Oh! My favorite sparrow,” Razi greeted, crushing his cigarette under heel with a flourish of his polished shoes. “I was wondering when one of you would come down.”

Merrick gathered Abby back to her feet despite her protests, ushering her into the hall and wondering how the hell he was going to explain everything that had happened, not only to her, but to Teremun.

Rule number one: Never let the humans see you.

“What are you?” she demanded, pushing herself away from him at last. “Where did you come from? What—what was—” She looked between his face and his wings, one of them still dripping blood, and she pulled her lower lip between her teeth. “Your voice. I know your voice.”

Merrick spread his empty hands. “You do know me,” he assured quietly. “I'm—I'm your guardian angel. Abby, everything is okay. Tyr is taking care of the demons in there. You're safe. I promise you that.”

“Angels and demons,” she whispered, raking her fingers back through her hair. “I—I gotta go. I can't. This is some sort of fever dream, or—or I fell asleep. Or I'm going crazy.” The word came out like a sob, and she stumbled back a few more paces. “I must have a brain tumor.”

Merrick took in a deep breath, folded his wings, and concealed himself from her again. He came around behind her, wrapping her in his arms so that she couldn't feel it anywhere but her soul. “I'm sorry,” he whispered, pressing his cheek against her hair. “You don't have a brain tumor. Go home and sleep. This'll all be a bad dream by morning.”

Staring at the space where he had been a moment prior, Abby rubbed at her eyes, then shook her head. With nothing but a painful squeeze in her chest and the insistent urge to go _home_ , she pulled her keys from her pocket and half-sprinted for her car. Merrick glanced back towards the door, then followed after her. Tyr could more than handle himself.

Tyr rather thought the same thing—he could handle himself. The pair of hellhounds were dealt with in short order, and he stood brandishing his bloody axe, turning to face Razi directly. The demon smiled, and clapped his hands slowly.

“Well done, sparrow. Daddy crow teach you those tricks?”

“And a few others,” Tyr agreed, rounding the corner of the metal table and shaking the blood from the blade of his axe. “Wanna see?”

“Me? No.” Razi clicked his tongue against his teeth, and nodded towards the far corner of the room. “But they do.”

Tyr followed his gaze, and had just enough time to materialize a shield on his arm before he was bowled to the floor. Four demons followed him down to the ground, the first yanking his dagger from where it had buried a few inches into his shield. Razi perched on one of the laboratory tables, folding his legs and picking up one of the scattered papers with mild curiosity. He paid little mind to the sounds below him, snarls and squeals, the sound of flesh hitting flesh, the splatter of blood across the sterile floor. Occasionally the scrape of metal would make him flinch, but he never lifted his eyes from the papers, humming under his breath.

“Hey, sparrow,” he called, “you ever get a song stuck in your head? I can't even think of the name of it. It's just this tune, like—hmm. Reminds me of something.” He lifted his head at last, looking down at the bloodied floor over the lip of one of the papers. “Like a hymn or some shit. Not a hymn but, what do you call it—a folk song?”

One of the demons pinned Tyr on his stomach with a knee between his wings, his weapons scattered across the slippery floor. Another demon had hold of a wing, digging his claws in deep

“I don't know, how old does a song have to be, to be considered a folk song?” Razi shrugged philosophically, and set down the papers at last. “ _O death, o death won't you spare me over 'til another year? Well what is this that I can't see, with ice cold hands taking hold of me.--_ Does that sound familiar, sparrow?”

A yank of demon's claws had the angel screaming, and Razi hummed to himself. “You're a bit out of tune there,” he scolded. “Take a few more feathers, boys. He's got to get louder before Daddy will come running.”

“And what then, Razi?” one of the younger demons demanded, coming up with a fistful of bloody brown feathers. “We're there to be your barricade against the slaughter?”

“Depends on how quick you've learned to smoke out.” He leaned forward some, looking down at the bloody angel still clawing to find purchase on the floor. “This is taking too long. Start breaking bones or something, will you? Do I have to teach you idiots how to do everything?” With an exaggerated sigh, he hopped off the counter at last, sending more papers fluttering to the ground, their edges slowly soaking up the blood. He slid an unlit cigarette between his lips, then swung his leg back to kick Tyr hard in the face. “Big boss said to make sure you were out of commission!” he chirped, glancing to the other demons. “So come on, boyos.”

“Why don't we just kill him?”

“Out of commission, not dead. Put your back into it, huh?” He took hold of one wing, wrenching it sharply to one side until screams once again echoed between the laboratory walls.

For what seemed an eternity, everything was noise and pain. Tyr didn't want to cry for help, not when these demons had already ambushed him. He was a soldier, but his father? If they got their claws into Chael, what would happen then? The corners of his vision started to go red, and he heard the snarl of a fresh hellhound, then teeth ripping into his arm. He whimpered, blood sliding across his lips when they finally parted. “ _Faðir_ ,” he whispered, his fingers twitching compulsively. It hurt to breathe, it hurt to blink, it hurt in every fiber of his being. Prayers or not, would his father come if he were dying?

And if he died, what would happen to Fletcher, who was in the redemption he had created using his magic and his soul?

Tyr wasn't aware at what point the pain had dissolved to a sort of numbness, so he wasn't sure when the demons had all disappeared into smoke, leaving him alone face-down in a pool of his own blood. Or, maybe not alone. A familiar hand touched his cheek, and when his eyes fluttered open, he saw Chael's concerned face hovering above him, drawing him into his arms, pulling him back into the warmth and the light.

“Merrick got away?” Tyr croaked.

“Merrick is fine.” Chael pressed his palm against Tyr's face. His father's eyes were hard, and for a moment Tyr felt an unfamiliar fear. The anger in Chael's face was something new, something that threatened to bubble over. “And you'll be fine, too.”

“ _Faðir_ —”

“Shh.” Chael stood at last, supporting Tyr's broken body in his arms. He felt his son go limp, and held him closer. “I'm sorry, Tyr. This is all my fault.” Blood still dripped down the walls, spattered across the white like patterns of painful rain, or the scattering of stardust from a vengeful angel's promise. “But I'm going to fix it. Somehow.”

 


	20. The Fallen

“Where have you been, exactly?”

Adem caught Razi by his collar, slamming his back against the dark stone wall before the demon could slink away. “I've been looking for you.”

“Here I am,” Razi grinned innocently, but the corners of his lips were puckered with trepidation. “What's up, boss?”

“Rumor has it you got your claws into an angel.”

“You shouldn't listen to rumors down here. Demons are as gossipy as chambermaids, and they don't even keep the place cle—” His words broke into a gargle as Adem seized his throat, squeezing tightly.

“Stop talking,” he snarled, leaning in until their faces were nearly touching. “One of your crew came to me with a fistful of feathers, and he couldn't wait to tell me all about how he had helped take down one of the Garrison under my orders. But he asked me: Why? Why couldn't they just kill him, when they had him helpless and pinned? Why didn't they just rip off his wings and deliver the whole things to me? That's my question, Razi. Why are you telling them orders from me that I never sent? And since when are you in the business of fighting angels?” When Razi opened his mouth to answer, Adem curled his claws into his neck, jerking him forward a few inches only to slam his body against the wall again. “I'm not done yet, you little snake. You'll get your chance to talk—after I've peeled enough of your flesh that I believe a word that comes out of your mouth.”

Razi kicked his feet weakly at the air, wrapping both hands around Adem's wrist for purchase. “Boss, this is all just a big misunderstanding,” he rasped, craning his head back. He tried his hand at a placating smile, but blood began to trickle from the corner of his mouth. Heat crept along his skin, and the corners of his vision pulsed with red and darkness. “Boss, please—”

Adem's affinity for causing pain was usually restricted to his claws; magic was hard without his wings. It was painful and exhausting, but nothing like the pain that started along Razi's skin and crept down into his bones. He wasn't sure when he had gone from the wall to the floor, or when he had started screaming, but the sound echoed in the chamber all around them, howling mockingly from the dark rock.

Adem put a foot down on one of his wings, digging in his heel until he heard the small bones begin to grind and crack. “Focus, Razi,” he purred. Though blurred vision Razi could just make him out, the veins in his arms turned black with magic, as if ink dripped down from his hands. His fingers clouded in smoke. “Why did you attack that angel?”

The whimper that rose in his throat was a sound that would haunt his dreams. It seemed to come from someone else, his mind already trying to separate from the fire that ate at every inch of his body, invisible flames licking at his ribs, squeezing his chest, filling his lungs with ash. “Please—”

Adem crouched, leaning his weight on the wing until he heard a snap, and the demon beneath him writhed and whimpered again. Black tar dripped from Adem's claws, landing on Razi's skin with a sizzle and the reek of burning flesh, but he wasn't sure if it was his skin or Adem's that was smoldering. Maybe both. “Who are you taking orders from?”

“Michael.”

He seized a handful of Razi's hair, jerking his head back with a snarl. “Listen, you little shit—”

“It was for Michael!” Tears rolled down his cheeks, feeling like beads of boiling water against his cracking skin. “I bargained with him, I signed a contract!” He held out a pleading hand, and a scroll appeared in his palm.

Adem snatched the papers, and when he stood the searing pain at last stopped. Razi collapsed, wishing he could stop sobbing long enough to breathe. Adem shook the smoke from his fingers, and broke the seal on the scroll. He scanned it over once, huffed, and then read it again.

“And you thought you could get the crown of Hell?” he snarled, but Razi was beyond answering. The papers began to curl and crinkle at the edges, before they finally caught on fire. While the contract burned on the floor, Adem left Razi to his miserable agony.

If Michael thought he could have all of Earth, he had another thing coming.

 

***

 

It wasn't often that Teremun heard prayers specifically calling for him, but even so this was the first time he had heard it by a demon. He had thought first to call on Chael to take care of it, but one glance at the Garrison assured him that they had bigger problems. Some other soldier would no doubt have sufficed, but--

_Come alone. I have information you'll find of interest. We can meet somewhere that you consider safe. I just want to talk._

Teremun settled down in the pews of an old church, folding his wings carefully and pressing his hands together with a soft sigh. Something about the dust swirling in front of the stained glass windows, the sunlight warming the smooth wooden benches, the murals on the ceiling—it reminded him of the soft glow of Heaven. 

Or perhaps it was because of the seals hidden amongst the paintings, keeping the church blessed and protected from demonic intervention.

“You would pick a place like this,” Adem greeted, sweat beading on his skin as he sat down on the row in front of the angel, looking up at the seals. “It burns here.”

“It wouldn't burn so badly if you weren't evil,” Teremun said smoothly.

Adem rolled his eyes. “You're an insufferable dick, so I'll keep this short.”

“Language. You are on holy ground.”

The demon twisted to look back at Teremun at last. “I thought you'd like to know that one of your guardians is breaking an awful lot of rules.”

“What do you—”

He dug his claws into the wood, ignoring the interruption. “Merrick. Did you know he's fucking a demon? That one that tried to kill him. He's been hiding him from all of you, and fucking him. Multiple times, from what I understand. Oh, and he revealed himself to his little ward, Abigail. He showed himself to her, and she's having somewhat of a crisis about it now. You might want to look into that.” He stood, smoke curling off the back of his hand.

“Merrick?” But Adem was already walking out, eager to be away from the burn of the church. Teremun took in a deep breath, and soothed his hands over the scores in the pew, fixing the damage done by Adem's claws. Merrick, who barely became an angel in the first place, who couldn't seem to get anything right. Would he really go so far as to start a relationship with a demon?

Which was worse, fucking a demon behind Heaven's back, or breaking one of the cardinal rules?

The bigger question was, why wasn't consorting with a demon a worse sin?

The soft light of Heaven hummed all around him as Teremun found Michael, touching the archangel's arm with a respectful incline of his head. “Sir, I need your assistance with something.”

“You're looking a little pale,” Michael greeted. “Is something the matter?”

“I have an unpleasant task which requires your supervision,” he said firmly. “It has been brought to my attention that an angel of mine has broken one of the cardinal rules, and must be punished.”

“Is that so?” Michael's smile glinted like the summer stars. “Of course, Teremun. Which of the Garrison has failed this time?”

“Not of the Garrison,” he assured, taking his arm to lead him. “Not this time. One of my Guardians. Merrick! Come here.”

Merrick startled, stopping mid-step at the call of his name. As soon as he saw Teremun and Michael together, the color left his cheeks, and his hands waved in vague patterns in front of him. “I—I heard Tyr was badly injured. I was going to help him.”

“He has enough hands healing him. Come here,” Teremun insisted.

Merrick crept over like a guilty dog. “Sir, I—I ran into a little trouble on Earth.”

“I heard.”

The angel flinched. “I can fix it, though. We can influence her into thinking it was all an elaborate dream. I only did it to protect her from the demons that were—”

“That were what?” Teremun snapped. “Were coming to bed you as well?”

Merrick choked.

“Excuse you?” Michael's wings puffed, and he fixed Teremun with a look that had the other angel both cowed and confused. “What cardinal sin has this angel committed, exactly?”

“I—I let Abby see me,” Merrick answered quickly, flushed from neck to ears. “I was trying to save her from a hellhound bite. I didn't want them to damn her soul.”

“Souls cannot be damned by hellhound bites,” Teremun snapped, straightening up again. “How thick are you, Merrick?”

“His heart was in the right place,” Michael put in, his smile serene again as he watched Merrick shift from foot to foot. “Heaven is all about forgiveness, is it not? He was doing what he thought was best, even if he made some...incorrect assumptions.” He put a hand on Merrick's shoulder, and the weight of it nearly made Merrick's weak knees give way.

“And as for your other sin?” Teremun pressed, not taking his gaze from Merrick's face. “Are you prepared to confess that one as freely?”

“What other sin?” He wished his voice didn't crack, and he felt his palms break into a cold sweat. He rubbed his hands against his thighs, tucking his wings tightly against his back.

“What you did with that demon  _you_ said was sent to kill you. What was his name? Fletcher?”

Michael chuckled, and tucked his arm around Merrick's shoulders. “That is nothing you need worry about, Guardian Leader. That demon is dead. He won't be bothering Merrick any longer. Besides, I happen to know that the angel's heart is in the care of someone much more worthy. Isn't it?”

Merrick couldn't breathe. He couldn't see. He could barely hear Michael's voice, little more than a dull echo in his ringing head. All he could hear was his pulse like the beat of war drums rolling across the water, like the echo of a memory, like the last line of hope stretching across an endless void. Fletcher was alive, and he knew that. But how did Michael know that Fletcher nearly died? And how did Teremun find out about all of this?

And if Michael thought that Fletcher was dead, did that mean he knew about him all along?

His wings trembled.

“Merrick?” Michael repeated, and the arm around his shoulders tightened.

He lifted his head, and took a step to the side to get out from under the archangel's arm. Merrick faced Teremun, standing straight despite the fear that chewed at his stomach, the warning bells that rang so loud in his head it felt like the swell of the ocean threatening to drown. “Fletcher isn't dead.” He wasn't sure if it was his voice—though he could feel his lips moving, he was certain his voice couldn't be so steady, so final, like the steps of a condemned man upon the gallows. “And I didn't just—I love him, Teremun. He is a good man, and I want to save him. Angels are meant to save the souls of those that are worthy. I was just doing what I was taught.”

Thunder cracked Heaven's sky, the eternal light replaced by a ripple of shadow and burning, burning stars.

“So you admit it,” Teremun said, cowering under the starlight, but with eyes still hard as iron chains. “You consorted with a demon.”

“Loving someone is not a crime.”

“But showing yourself to a human is,” Michael snapped, his wings flaring. “Do you deny breaking the laws of Heaven, Guardian?”

Merrick tried to look at him, but he could see nothing but stars, the light so bright it burned in his head, the endless sky stretching on and on behind the massive spread of the archangel's wings. “I don't deny it,” he whispered at last.

“You are not fit for Heaven's grace, Merrick.” Teremun straightened, and his hand came to rest heavily on Merrick's shoulder. It felt like crushing waves, dragging him deeper and deeper to the undertow of galaxies.

“Ask for forgiveness,” Michael demanded. “Atone, Guardian.”

“I made a mistake. I was just trying to protect her.”

The light of Heaven burned, burned, and pain rippled through his wings. Teremun stepped in between him and Michael, and he could hear their voices murmur, but was a haze, a blur, and he was drowning.

Warm arms wrapped around him, pulling him close against a strong chest that flared with the heat of the universe. Michael cradled his face in his hands, and he had never seen the archangel's eyes so hard.

“You had the chance at the world, Merrick,” Michael whispered, his voice cracking like the first gasp of wind ahead of a storm. “You could have it yet. Think on your sins. When you are ready, beg for forgiveness. I will be waiting to hear it.”

Michael let him go, and Merrick toppled backwards, feeling the warmth, the light, the familiar press of his wings against his back all falling away. And then he was falling, falling, falling—

Merrick's aching back hit hard concrete, filled with the scent of burning stars and broken hearts. With each breath shuddering against bruised ribs, and the echoing silence of unheard prayers like whispering whitecaps, he heard Chael's voice repeating over and over in his head.

_“Entrance into Heaven is not about the deeds that others would judge to be morally corrupt.”_

He closed his eyes, and he could still feel the heat of Michael's hands on his face. Loving someone was not a crime, but maybe it was enough for condemnation.

Across the street, a neon sign blinked _Buy, Sell, Pawn_. A ginger cat slept amongst a set of silver plates. Merrick narrowly managed to cross the road without being hit by a taxi. His back ached. His head felt empty. One loose white feather twirled in the wind, caught in the shop's doorjam. He pulled it free, and the weight of the fall finally hit him. His chest tightened, but he refused to let the tears come. Not yet—there was still hope. Fletcher would finish redemption, and then he would find him, and they could start over. He could get back to Heaven again, he could make everything right. He had to. Merrick stepped inside the shop at last, and the little bell above the door chimed. 

“Have you ever seen that Christmas movie—fuck, what is it called?” A familiar-looking man stood at the counter, his back to Merrick, but no one else in sight that he could be talking to. His shoulders hunched as if he were in pain, but his voice was smooth. Merrick felt his heart begin to pound. He knew that voice. He knew the way the man spoke around an unlit cigarette, the way his hands rested heavily on the counter, curling claws into the woodwork. 

“It’s  _ A Wonderful Life _ , or something like that? They said that every time a bell rang, an angel got its wings.” Razi snorted a laugh, and turned at last, enough to look over his shoulder and flash a smile full of fangs. “How’s that workin’ out for you, kid?” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of the arc with Fletcher and Merrick, and leads into the beginning of Book One of the Abomination series, which will hopefully be written soon.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find more information, including moodboards and one-shot snippets, here: http://kclenhartnovels.tumblr.com/post/169042568521/abomination-series-masterpost


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